


All Dressed Up For A Hit and Run

by Caddaren



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Bad Drinking Habits, Biracial Daichi, Biracial Kuroo, Bisexual Suga, Established Kuroo/Kenma, FTM Kozume Kenma, M/M, Mentions Of Schizophrenia, Murder, Pansexual Kuroo Tetsurou, Past Drug Addiction, Please Save Suga, Polyamory, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Suga is having a Rough Time (TM), transgender kenma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caddaren/pseuds/Caddaren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sugawara works as a maid at a gambling casino and his life is going nowhere. The same can be said of the person who was quietly murdered in room 223.</p><p>Takeda is the grandson of a casino tycoon and heir to the old man's corporate empire. But Takeda has been lied to his whole life...</p><p>Daichi has asked Oikawa to get close to an undercover cop in their midst and keep him from sticking his nose where he shouldn't. </p><p>Kuroo is happy with his life and his boyfriend, Kenma, and yet his eyes have begun to wander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artsyeccentric](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsyeccentric/gifts).



> Alternatively titled: Rough Time (TM), please help Suga. This has been a long time in the works and lemme say I'm excited to have it up! Sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes, it's late.  
> Also, there's a [huge playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1222156958/playlist/5MiVaBEm9rQfH19uGvrwQO/)  
> if you want to listen to it, feel free to shuffle it because it's in no real order. 
> 
> Rating is subject to change, guys~

**Kuroo**

“If you like pina coladas...” Kuroo sings, rounding the corner of the kitchen. The table has been kicked onto its side, scattering newspaper onto the floor. “And getting caught in the rain…” There’s a boot-print of blood on the floor and a bullet shell next to it. Kuroo tsks, interrupting his tune. “He better not be dead, asshole,” he calls, then continues to hum.  

“It’s just his arm,” a voice answers, and Kuroo steps over broken picture frames in the hallway as he makes his way to the backdoor.  

“Yeah, well, you better fucking wrap his arm before he bleeds out in the kabu,” says Kuroo, holstering his gun. There's blood on the grip from the gash on his arm; he’ll have to clean it later.  

“They need to be watered anyway,” says Bokuto, looking pleased with himself, pinning a man against the wall of a rickety shed with the threat of his gun alone. Kuroo has to pause a second to admire the figure he makes, shoulders pulled taut and legs braced with adrenaline. Kuroo hadn’t been there for the entire fight but he knows Kou’s blood is still singing from the thrill of it.  

He eyes the man’s finger where it rests on the trigger. “Kou,” he says, and Bokuto spares him a glance before lowering the gun and taking a step back. It’s good that they’ve grown closer over the past year; Kou listens to him more now. He’s too wild to run free without a handler. They both are.  

“He shot you because he cares,” says Kuroo, crouching down in front of the man leaning against the shed, panting like a cornered animal and clutching his arm. “Not about you, of course,” he continues, reaching out and ignoring the way the man startles in favour of tearing part of his shirt. “But he cares about something, I’m sure.” 

“I care about money,” says Bokuto, and while that may be true, Kuroo recognizes the words for the part they’re playing.  

“Something I’m sure you can relate to, Muraki,” Kuroo says to the man, instead of dwelling on the feeling of blood cooling between his fingers. “Daichi also cares about money,” he says.  

“I didn’t take anything from Sawamura!” Muraki cries, frightened tears welling in his eyes.  

“Don’t care,” says Kuroo, “get up and get in the fucking car.” He drags Muraki up and shoves him forward. Bokuto follows behind them, keeping his eyes on their surroundings. They weave through the broken house again. Bokuto picks a page of the newspaper off the floor and tucks it into his jacket pocket.  

“Shit, we’re late,” Kuroo says, his breath puffing out in the night air. Bokuto shoves Muraki in the back seat and orders him to buckle up, gun in a loose grip by his thigh.  

“There won’t be any traffic at this time of night,” says Bokuto, and Kuroo grunts, shooting a text to Daichi to tell him they were on their way. His fingers chill against the buttons.  

They make the drive back to Sendai in record time with Kuroo behind the wheel, speeding down backroads and racing red lights. For a moment, Kuroo thinks he sees flashing lights in his rearview mirror but it’s just paranoia. It’s too late at night for cops to pretend to care. Bokuto turns the radio on and Kuroo drums his fingers on the wheel.  

The casino looms in front of them at the end of the gated drive, pearly white and four stories high. Bokuto smiles and points out how well the flowers are growing in Yamaguchi’s new bed, but Kuroo’s too busy answering his phone to respond.  

“Yeah, we’re here,” he says, pulling the car around the back of the building where the valets park guest cars. “We’ll make the drop off quick and then head straight over to Akaashi’s... No, but Bokuto’s got a nasty split lip and I took a plate to the arm… a bit of faith would be nice, Boss, but thanks for the concern.”  

They let the car idle as they drag Muraki out of the backseat and pass him off to Tsukishima and Yamaguchi. Tsukishima tsks at them and the state of their prisoner. “A little less blood loss would be appreciated next time,” he says.  

Kuroo leans in close, his eyes low-lidded and unmistakably filthy. “Next time you should come with us, make sure we don’t _misbehave_ ,” he says, grinning like a shark.  

“Don’t be disgusting,” says Tsukishima, frog marching the man into the basement. Yamaguchi follows close behind him, tutting like a mother hen. Bokuto laughs at Kuroo’s rejection and climbs back into the front seat.  

“Shut up,” says Kuroo, jerking the car into gear.  

“It’s not like he ever says anything different,” says Bokuto, chuckling still, and Kuroo rolls his eyes.  

 

 **Takeda**  

“Don’t let her bother you, sir.”  

It’s a terrible day for a funeral. Far too bright out, too hot for the suit Takeda is wearing. Takeda’s grandfather had hung on for years and then, with complete disregard for family tradition, announced he had signed his fortune over to his grandson instead of his daughter-in-law and then passed away in his sleep the next night. Takeda’s stepmother is currently fighting the document but Takeda’s lawyers assure him she has no grounds for a judicial battle. Still, Takeda is a bit upset she’s causing such a fuss during their time of mourning.  

“I know,” he says, eyes out the window on the scenery floating by. The natto and rice Ukai made him eat earlier that morning sits heavy in his stomach like a rock and Takeda wishes they could pull over so he could throw up in some random convenience store bathroom. But that would rot his teeth and make his mouth stink, and this day feels too sacred to tarnish any further. He will ignore the urge until the wake is over and he is alone; the same goes for his insistent tears.  

All eyes are on him when the Ukai opens the car door. He is the youngest of all the relatives, given that his father hadn’t any siblings and his mother’s family is only here out of courtesy for him. Takeda receives condolences from all his grandfather’s and father’s associates and close friends, who bow in front of each and every one of his family before moving on. It’s like watching a train go, car by car, only it never ends and he doesn’t remember why he went to the train station in the first place. His manners take over and he bows politely over and over until his stomach feels sicker and heavier than before and he’s certain he’s turning green.  

He can feel his stepmother’s eyes on his back when the procession finally ends and the ceremony starts. He sits next to her like a gentleman would and ignores the way she leans away from him. She’s hurting and she’s lashing out the only way she can, he understands this. The ceremony is solemn, and people bow and sprinkle incense onto the pile.  

After the ceremony, when few linger and bags of rice and crackers have been handed to those on their way out the door, Takeda stands in front of the incense and bows deeply to pay his respects a second time. He knows Ukai hovers near the door, eyes on him for his own safety, and he knows his stepmother is just biding her times to corner him when he’s alone. Money makes people into monsters, Ukai had said four days ago, eying the burn of her palm still hot on his cheek.  

“I don’t know if I can do this,” whispers Takeda, Ukai standing at his shoulder. They have a funeral ceremony to get through the next day, and then the cremation. He doesn’t know which he’s dreading more, and he wants to climb into the car and tell Ukai to drive them as far away as possible.  

“You can,” says Ukai, and Takeda wishing he could believe the man, wishes he could take it as more than just hollow reassurances. At least there is no pity in the man’s voice.  

“I don’t want to,” he says, and Ukai hums in agreement. 

After a few minutes, Ukai places a hand on his shoulder and turns him away from the incense. “But you must,” says Ukai, and Takeda sighs.  

It is only after the cremation ceremony that Takeda allows himself to cry. It is the worst kind of sadness, with snot running down his chin and a headache pounding at his temples. Ukai is in the kitchen a floor below preparing supper, but Takeda is so terrified of being overheard that he locks himself into the bathroom and lets the shower run down his body to cover the sound, hands muffling his mouth.  

He misses the way it used to be, before his grandfather succumbed to the cancer in his lungs and before his family life fell apart. Before his father died, shot and robbed in some dark alley, and before his step-mother wanted him to exist as nothing more than the scum on the bottom of her shoe. He misses his grandfather’s steady hands and his grandmother, though he could barely remember her, and her kind, kind eyes. He misses the polite distance of his teacher’s and his headmaster, the obnoxious sounds of his roommates playing video games or drinking too much on the weekend instead of studying. He would take a thousand noisy weekends over this. But that isn’t how life works and Ukai will be climbing the stairs soon, his knuckles on the wooden door, his voice carrying through the crack underneath where the steam creeps out, taking with it the evidence of Takeda’s weakness, a misty river carrying with it debris of ruin from its banks.  

A rap at the door. “Takeda-kun?” 

“Yes?” says Takeda, amazed by how scratchy his voice sounds even with the sound of the water filling the gaps in his throat that have taken over his ability to lie convincingly. “What is it?” 

“Dinner is ready, sir. I made soup… you should eat something,” says Ukai, and Takeda closes his eyes, a heavy weight resting on his shoulders. He knows Ukai is right, and propriety dictates he put on his best face and appreciate what the man has made for him. But Takeda is tired. He can barely think of doing anything beyond crawling into bed.  

“Thank you, Ukai, but I’m too tired to eat tonight,” says Takeda, turning the shower knob until the only lingering sound is that of water dripping off his skin, a musical kaleidoscope against a backdrop of chrome and porcelain.  

A moment passes, then he hears Ukai walk away from the door and down the stairs. Toweling off quickly, Takeda slips into his bedroom and sinks down on his futon, a sigh on his lips from the familiar comfort and the weight of the day finally leaving his shoulders. In the low light, he sees a tray on the floor next to him with a small bowl of soup, another of rice, and a cup of tea. He smiles faintly and puts forth his best effort to at least taste all of it. Ukai returns some time later to fetch the dishes.  

“You don’t have to do that,” says Takeda, idle fingers fiddling with the edge of his comforter.  

Ukai smiles, a little rough around the edges but otherwise genuine. “It’s not in my job description, but you needed it,” he says, taking the tray with him.  

“You’re going?” asks Takeda, panic colouring his words. He doesn’t know if he can handle this house alone, not like he used to. He knows for a fact his step-mother’s room down the hall has been emptied in one of her more recent fits, with a promise to return once she found a way around his totalitarian inheritance and kicked him out of her house.  

“Nah, I’ll sleep on the guest futon tonight. No reason for either of us to be alone on a night like tonight,” says Ukai, and he closes the door behind him, leaving Takeda with on the light from a small lamp.  

“Goodnight,” says Takeda, to an empty room. Then he rolls under the covers and falls asleep.  

The morning greets him with overcast skies and recent rain on the window panes running races to the bottom, completely undisturbed by Takeda's gaze. Takeda watches them play, his head resting on his pillow, wondering if they mimic his sorrow or mock it. He thinks perhaps the rain is a sign but struggles to imagine a good interpretation.  

The floor is cold under his feet when he rolls out of bed, and the smell of coffee curls up the stairs. Ukai sits at the komatsu, legs crossed loosely beneath, with a cup in one hand and a paper in the other. He doesn't speak when Takeda meanders around his small kitchen, not until Takeda joins him with his own cup. Takeda is sure he looks like he hasn't slept in days. His head already pounds with exhaustion, a solo dum in an otherwise silent and stoic procession, but Ukai thankfully doesn’t comment.  

Takeda sips politely while Ukai slowly flips through the sports section. "It's decaf," says Ukai, glancing at him.  

Takeda stares at his hands. "Shit," he says, after a long pause.  

Ukai snorts and stubs out the cigarette hanging from his lips. "Sorry, I'm trying to cut back," he says. "We can grab you some later so you don't suffer."  

"Oh no, it's alright, thank you for letting me use your house in the first place!" Says Takeda, ashamed by his own lack of manners. "And your shower, your futon..." 

"Call it a returned kindness," says Ukai, looking a little uncomfortable from Takeda's fervor. “It’s the least I could do; no sense in you wasting money on a hotel when I live so close,” he adds, and Takeda is once again so thankful to have him as a friend but does no say it for fear the man would grow too uneasy and hide behind his job as the reason for his selflessness.  

A moment passes with Takeda smiling into his mug and Ukai skimming the inner depths of his newsprint, his eyes catching on the weather for the day. More rain races down the window glass, spotted and streaked and completely ignorant of the scene inside where Takeda’s foot knocks into Ukai’s and both men smile, and then Ukai rises with a gruff “breakfast” hanging in the air as a clear invitation for Takeda to sink back into their familiar roles of friends. Takeda and Ukai last co-inhabited when Takeda’s father died four years ago, his last year of high school derailed by a phone call and a visit to the Headmaster’s office. Ukai had picked him up and brought him home, made him tea, and left him in silence, no pressure, no guilt. His step-mother had held him close and sobbed into his sweater while Ukai cleaned the teapot and the cups. Since then, they have maintained a comfortable and professional distance. Ukai had been Takeda’s driver since Takeda entered high school and, despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, Ukai remains one of his closest friends.  

Ukai makes miso soup and eggs and even sneaks Takeda a packaged melon break as a treat. “What are the plans for the day?” asks Ukai, even though they both know today is the day Takeda has to return to his grandfather’s estate, now in his possession, and take stock of what the old patriarch had left behind.  

“Another drive,” says Takeda, supping the last of his tea and nibbling at his melon bread.  

“I’ll ready the car,” says Ukai, drying his hands before taking his keys. Takeda nods at him and then the man is out the door.  

The quiet of the room drags, a note on a lonely violin that refuses to falter, the pinpricking sensation of calligraphy lessons after lunch in old study rooms that smelt of books and oak wood and the must that grows and permeates old homes. His grandfather had often dismissed him from his tutors early to walk him around the estate. If the weather permitted, they would often walk the perimeter of the garden and make their way down to the small koi pond that lay at the base of the hill. There they would feed the fish and the fowl that happened to the nest there that year. His grandfather would kneel at the water’s edge and dip his fingers into the water to test the temperature, as if he might go for a swim, then he’d hum to himself and never tell Takeda what he was thinking about, not until a few minutes had passed, and Takeda learned to wait, as his grandfather could sit and think for hours if you pressured him to do otherwise, just to spite you and make you squirm. Then, his grandfather might sigh and say “Spring came early this year” for his grandfather was a man of very few words, you see? And Takeda, who aspired to be quite like his grandfather in all ways, would say “it’s good for the birds” as if he knew such things and his grandfather did not. Then his grandfather would smile and say “such a smart boy, where do you learn things like that?” as if Takeda had not heard him say the same comment about the birds the week before.  

And then Takeda’s father had died and his step-mother sent him away for college and his grandfather threw his back into the company Takeda’s father was no longer around to take care of.  

Somewhere in the apartment a clock ticks. Takeda stands and wipes the tears away from his face and joins Ukai in the car once he’s wearing clothes appropriate for the visit to come. “Drive please,” says Takeda, eyes out the window.  

“Yes, boss,” says Ukai, and the silence drags again, another lonely violin on a rainy morning. They like to act as if Ukai still has to take directions on where to go despite the fact Ukai knows perfectly well where his grandfather’s estate is and has driven the route a thousand times when Takeda came home from college to visit. Yet the formal commands of “turn here” and “next left” allow Takeda to keep his mind off the fact the house would be empty, completely void of the one comforting presence he needed most in his life right now. 

A butler answers the door, the same man who has been serving his grandfather since Takeda could barely walk. “Young Master,” says Hayate, and Takeda feels like he’s thirteen again, simultaneously safe and unburdened, lacking all the harsh truths he has come to know about the adult world.  

“Hayate,” says Takeda, placing a gentle hand on the elderly man’s arm. “A sight for sore eyes.” 

“I could say the same for you, sir. Shall I make tea?”  

“Yes, please. Have it brought up to… the study,” says Takeda, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. “Ukai will have parked the car by now, have him relax while I work, find him busy work if needed… I want to be alone for a while.”  

“Understandable, sir,” says Hayate, bowing respectfully. “I’ll bring the tea up in but a moment.” 

“Thank you,” says Takeda, before he crosses the foyer, impeccably clean as always and ever so bright despite the gray sky outside, and climbs the stairs. His grandfather’s study had always been on the second floor, even after his grandfather had developed hip problems and knee problems as well. The old man had insisted on making the climb every day, claiming it was one of the few small ways he had kept his health for so many years. “I had a rambunctious youth,” his grandfather would say, boney fingers rubbing aching joints, “it’s only fair I pay for it now.” Even then, Takeda had watched him drink his bitter imported tea, nodding to himself as the strong taste distracted him from the pains that accompanied old age.  

If you knew where to look, you could see the distinctive worn spot where his grandfather set his teacup, everyday for the past forty years. The same cup, the same hand, on the same oak desk, a memory carved into a preserved landscape, water-eroded rock with its own story to tell whoever stopped long enough to listen, as if the very man still sat there himself, imprinted into the room as one of its unique features. Takeda ran his hand over that same scar in the wood’s grain, the dark lacquer rubbed raw and eager to spill secrets. The room still smelt faintly of lemongrass and tobacco, the odor as much a part of the room as staggering floor-to-ceiling bookcases his grandfather had been so fond of and the expansive view of the grounds and gardens. The rug that lay between the large desk and the heavy door as faded, older than Takeda as many things in the house were, and Takeda took care to walk around it, knowing that any mess on its muted red and brown threads would’ve upset his grandfather greatly. Once Takeda was old enough to know better, he took care to treat that rug – and his grandfather’s wishes—with respect. And if he was patient enough, his grandfather would join him on the floor, ask Takeda to “read to me, Ittetsu” and pull him close as he stumbled from page to page, encouraged by the pride on his grandfather’s face. He learnt a great many things on that rug, things that no one else thought he needed to know, things that a child didn’t always pick up in the classroom even with the best tutors in the country. It was those things, those lessons in patience and thoughtfulness, that kept Takeda going through the funeral, that gave him the strength not to cry like a child when he sank into the empty chair behind his grandfather’s ancient desk.  

Memories threatened to overwhelm him but a knock at the door interrupted his rampaging thoughts. Had he really lingered so long, lost in sensory memories? That had to be Hayate with the tea, after all: other than the old butler, the estate was a relative ghost-town out of respect for the family. The rest of the staff and the grounds-keeping would return in two days to keep things from falling to disrepair and neglect.  

“Come in,” says Takeda, eyes falling to that distinct wound on the desk’s otherwise pristine surface.  

The old butler sends him a fond smile as he closes the door behind his back. “You look just like him, Young Master,” says Hayate, and Takeda smiles sadly in response. He’s heard the same thing before, many times, and yet he cannot help the pride that blossoms in his chest, a curling white rose nurtured by his grandfather’s careful, steady fingers, fed by countless, priceless encouraging words traditionally left unsaid. Behind it echoed “genius” and “gifted” and “talented”, words and claims that held no interest to Takeda, all attempts to flatter him or his parents, begging for signatures on checks and handshake photos in newsprint. Above all, Takeda valued the things his grandfather taught him, showed him, left him as an innocent legacy. Takeda would kill to be half the man his grandfather was, including a mirror image of the man at his simplest, at his most relaxed. Those moments came seated at this chair alone, and perhaps on the banks of the koi pond. Takeda would have to take a walk later to ground himself as his grandfather had taught him.  

“Thank you Hayate,” says Takeda, grateful for the old butler’s familiar presence and his kind words. “I hope to make him proud, from this chair.”  

“I’m sure you will, sir,” says Hayate, pouring him a small cup of sweet smelling tea.  

Takeda places the cup at his lips and inhales, closing his eyes. “Still spoiling me, I see,” says Takeda, smiling at the memories behind the fragrance.  

“I thought it might calm you,” says Hayate, face revealing nothing but his fondness. 

“Thank you, Hayate, truly. I don’t know what I’d do without you at a time like this. You’re as much a part of this family as I am,” says Takeda, laying a light hand on Hayate’s forearm. The man had been at his grandfather’s side for over fifty years, with him for the tail-end of his reckless twenties, the entirety of his happy married years, a silent comfort and a pillar of support when Takeda’s grandmother succumbed to dementia only a few years after Takeda was old enough to walk (he remembers her clearer than his own mother, his father’s second wife), and practically a second grandfather to Takeda (easily filling the void of his mother’s side of the family, who rarely wanted anything to do with him). He owed Hayate so much, especially for the special care he gave Takeda’s grandfather in those final years of his life as his body fought the lung cancer, but Takeda was also too selfish to suggest Hayate retire and take it easy as his kind, old soul deserved on the off-chance the old man actually accepted the idea.  

“You warm my heart, Ittetsu,” says Hayate, his given name rare off the man’s tongue. “I will leave you to your business, Young Master. Do no hesitate to call me if you need anything. Dinner will be served at seven, if that suits you, sir?”  

Takeda says, “oh there’s really no reason to worry about me Hayate, I don’t want you doing all the work yourself.” Then he pauses, considering the dignified butler now standing at the door. Takeda huffs and smiles. A meal together is the least he can do for the man. “Thank you, Hayate, seven sounds perfect. I’d ask you and Ukai to join me, just this once, for company.” 

“Just this once, sir,” says Hayate, smiling despite his stern professionalism.  

“Thank you,” says Takeda, and dismisses the man by turning his attention back to the papers on his grandfather’s desk. The large door groans closed, cutting the study room off from the bright hallway. The large windows cast dull grey on the room, making the room feel longer than it really is with strange shadows. Takeda loses track of time underneath all the random papers and notes left untouched since Takeda’s grandfather was confined to his bed. Some of it is nonsense: scribbles that only the old man himself could make sense of now. He finds a diary he sets aside for later, a few grainy pictures in stark black and white dated to nearly forty years ago filled with men he doesn't recognize, a few dried and pressed flower petals he can't bear to disturb, and too many memos to count. Even in his old age and semi-retirement, Takeda’s grandfather had remained an important and busy man. Takeda has to pause and compose himself a few times, especially after spotting one of his own calligraphy lessons, little smudged fingerprints marrying the smooth, small inky letters and a few stray doodles sprawling over the blank spaces left between when the lesson was forgotten. Takeda can remember signing his masterpiece and handing it over proudly but based on the shakiness of the letters, he would have been too young to remember such a thing.  

Finally, Takeda’s shaky fingers find an envelope addressed to him, his grandfather’s confident scrawl spelling out his full name on the front. This was written before his finer motor skills started slipping, his body weakened by infection and surgeries designed to help but doing anything but. Last year, then.  

Takeda sighs; he hates the idea of his grandfather knowing his death was approaching and planning for it. This letter sits separate from the will that rests safely in a safe in a law firm, un-edited for seven years now after his father’s premature death. As such, this letter will no doubt be more personal, less business, and Takeda will treasure it forever. But can he open it so soon without reducing himself to tears? 

Takeda huffs a bitter laugh. “You’ll cry no matter how much time has passes,” he says to himself. Still, he is careful with the letter opener, wishing to keep the envelope itself as well. Takeda sobs from the first line alone. The letter reads:  

 _“_ _My Dearest_ _Itettsu_ _,_  

 _It’s nearing winter again and the koi have stopped feeding out of my ha_ _n_ _d. You know what the colder temperatures do to their appetites. I think this year I’ll_ _finally expand on the bridge system over the main pond. I might even add another pond to the east garden. Life has a funny way of guiding you where you need to go, no matter the endeavor._  

 _Such is the way you blessed my life. I waited so many years to hold you in my arms_ _at last_ _, and even then, I was not ready for the small bundle handed to me. Only a few days old and already giggling and kicking. And you grew so quickly, such a strong boy you were. So full of joy and everything my son needed._  

 _When your father died, I didn’t know how we would cope in his absence. You had already lost your mother some years before and I had lost my wife as well. I was lost, aimless and drowning in a sea of grief. My other sons had already passed, as you know, but that was many years ago,_ _before you were born. Back then, the only thing that truly saved me was family. When your father died, what saved me, without your loving gra_ _ndmother to ground me, was you.”_  

The hand over Takeda’s mouth trembles against his parted lips. The letter threatens to crinkle in his grip but he lets it drop to the desk instead, the fat tears in his eyes too persistent to read through. He lets them fall until his nose is clogged and his head pounds from the pressure behind his eyes.  

 _“_ _You were still so small in my arms then. I could still sit you in my lap and hold you as we both cried. You were too old for it, I know, but you were also so ashamed of your own sadness, and in comforting you, I allowed myself to grieve freely, hoping to show you there was nothing to be ashamed of._  

 _I worry about how you will cope once I pass. My time will come soon. You can deny many things in your life but when you reach my_ _age,_ _your bones begin to tell you things that cannot be ignored. Without me, I fear you will_ _fall to bad habits. You will overwork yourself, perhaps, or ignore your own health. This is the last thing I want and I hope you will respect my last wishes. For your own sake and for your peace of mind, focus your energy on your recovery and accept_ _aide_ _from those around you. There are many I trust with my business and many I beseech you_ _to trust as well. Out of these people, I trust_ _Sawamura_ _Daichi the most. He was there when your father passed and he’s been there for the family since. Go to my hotel on the coast and find him there, he’s been running for me for many years. He’s been trained to handle my business until you are able but more importantly, he is my friend._  

 _Take care of yourself,_ _Itettsu_ _. I know you’ll make me proud._  

 _Remember to feed the fish._  

 _Isamu.”_  

Takeda lets the letter fall to the desk as he considers his grandfather’s words. He does not know whether or not he is disappointed in the letter or if it is exactly as he expected of the elderly man. Above all, he is curious as to who this Daichi is, why he never met him in all his years at his grandfather’s side (or maybe he had, once, and had been too young to remember), and whether or not he can help in any way. The business world can be cut-throat and he himself woefully inexperienced. What is to stop his grandfather’s competitors from taking advantage of his weakness? Daichi, according to his grandfather.  

He sets the letter and the envelope safely to the side to return to later, turning his attention instead to the rest of the desk. It will be his duty to vacate the study of the old master’s possessions to his own approval over time. Should he find the memory too painful, he can choose to leave the room untouched in honour of the deceased. But he doesn’t want that; he wants to work at the same desk his grandfather did, and his grandfather would have berated him for wasting a beautiful room anyways.  

A knock at the door tell his dinner is ready, and he soon joins Hayate and Ukai for a modest meal broken at the small table in the kitchen. Idle chatter fills the room. At the end, as Ukai and Hayate take away his dishes, Takeda clears his throat. “Do either of you know who Sawamura Daichi is? My grandfather mentioned him, told me to seek him out for guidance,” he says. 

Hayate steps forward. “I know him personally, sir. He’d can be found at the coast-side establishment your father was fond of in your youth. He runs it for your grandfather,” says Hayate.  

“Ukai, do you know where this establishment is?” asks Takeda, watching the man dry his hands on a towel.  

“Yes sir, I’ve been there many times,” says Ukai. 

Takeda nods. “Then that is where we will go. Tomorrow.”  

The morning brings more rain. Takeda sits in the backseat staring out the window. Last night had been another hard one, his eyes puffy when he woke up from all the crying. Hayate had suggested a shower and a fresh cup of tea to clear his sinuses. The combo worked wonders.  

“How much further, Ukai?” asks Takeda, trying his best not to show his nervousness. Nevertheless, Ukai smiles fondly in the rearview mirror.  

“Just another few miles, sir,” says Ukai, eyes back on the road. The countryside, lush and carefully cultivated, passes by quickly. This is one of his grandfather’s businesses that Takeda has never before visited. It makes sense given controversial nature of gambling, especially pachinko machines which many consider the gateway to worse habits. Takeda knows that gambling is illegal in many forms and that his grandfather was probably not the paradigm of strictly legal business, but surely his grandfather had entered the business for a reason and it is Takeda’s job to discover it and keep that morality strong. In any case, a casino-esque hotel was no place for a child, genius grandchild or no. But Takeda is a man now and he felt, by being sent specifically to such a place, his grandfather also believed he was ready for the responsibility. After all, there is a difference between naming a successor and actually expecting them to succeed. Takeda’s grandfather had been a great man and now he trusted Takeda to do him right and continue the legacy of their family name.  

 “We’re here, sir,” says Ukai, and Takeda pulls himself out of his thoughts to focus on the towering building just outside the car, creamy white and perfectly manicured. Takeda has no head for architecture but he can admire the artisanship that went into –from what he can see—combining stone from Western designs and a more traditional approach, even if he has developed a personal preference for more modern, urban options. Still, the building is intimidating and certainly does not inspire confidence in Takeda’s chest.  

Ukai opens the car door yet Takeda doesn’t move, still staring at the looming building, white and bright in the sparse sunlight. “Do you need a moment, sir?” asks Ukai, his expression scrunching with concern.  

Takeda shakes his head and steps out before Ukai can insists. It’s best not to show vulnerability, even when he’s grieving, even around people he trusts.  

“Where is Sawamura’s office?” asks Takeda, the name still deceptively familiar.  

“On the first floor, sir. Directly off the lobby, if memory serves correct,” says Ukai, following him up the steps and handing over his keys to a man who doesn’t look suited to the job given his monstrous height and the unfriendly scowl on his face. “But Hayate called ahead, so Daichi should meet you in the-” 

Ukai trails off when he lays eyes on the three men bowing respectively before them. The sight overwhelms Takeda only for a moment before propriety takes hold and has him bowing politely in return. 

“Master Takeda,” they say, perfectly in unison. Then the middle man steps forward. He is an honest looking man with dark features and tan skin, dressed sharply in a suit that rivals those Takeda sees in magazines. Takeda hopes this is Sawamura Daichi, hopes this is the man for him to trust.  

“Hayate said you were coming. I am Sawamura Daichi and I run this establishment,” says Daichi, holding out a hand for a handshake. Takeda manages to smile, his hand not too clammy. Daichi’s grip is firm.  

“My grandfather sent me to find you,” says Takeda. “It’s a pleasure to meet you personally, though I believe I saw you at the funeral service.” 

“An unfortunate first encounter. Please, join me in my office,” says Daichi, and at Takeda’s words, leads them away. Once there, Ukai finds his place by the door. “Ah, forgive me. This is Oikawa, one of my clerks, or receptionist if you will, and this is Kuroo, one of my bodyguards,” says Daichi. Both men, so very unalike in appearance, bow deeply. Sensing some sort of hierarchy, Takeda bows his head in return. 

“I confess,” says Takeda, “my grandfather didn’t mention any of you, or this.” 

“Ah, that makes sense, I’ve always been his dirty secret. It’s a pity we were never introduced, however,” says Daichi, and Takeda has to agree. Daichi seems very friendly, his smiles and conversation easy and genuine. His grandfather had to have a good reason not introducing them before. Perhaps there had never been a good time; Daichi was undoubtedly a busy man and Takeda had always been focused on school. 

“But you’re here now,” says Daichi, smiling softly. Takeda feels very special indeed. It’s a winner’s smile, sure to make women swoon and men loosen their pockets. “And we have much to discuss. Would you like a drink to get your started? Scotch? Whiskey? Sake maybe?”  

“Oh no, just a water, please,” says Takeda. Daichi snaps his fingers once and one of the others, his bodyguard, moves to it. Daichi himself pours two fingers of an amber alcohol and sips it. Takeda accepts a tumbler of water with ice and watches Daichi watching him. It is the first time Daichi makes him feel uncomfortable. The scrutiny only lasts for a few sips and then Daichi must find what he’s looking for. The man leans forward.  

“I just have one question for you, sir,” says Daichi, and it’s strange to hear such deference from a man who looks so in charge of everything in his life. “Do you want to take over your grandfather’s empire? Before you answer, you need to know that it’s a dangerous business at the best of times. You’ll be constantly making enemies and people will try to use you for and take your money. If you want my help, which I am fully ready to give, sir, I must know how dedicated to this path you are and that you’ll do your best to do what your grandfather did to stay at the top. You have his blood and I believe that means you have true potential, but this company needs a real leader and I refuse to follow a man who is anything less.”  

Takeda stares, overwhelmed by Daichi’s honesty, as Daichi calmly sips his drink. His composure is remarkable especially in comparison to how raw Takeda feels. Of course, there’s nothing holding Daichi to him in the wake of his grandfather’s death, no bond or friendship, only a shared name and a strong resemblance given to him that even his mother’s kind eyes couldn’t dilute.  

“I understand,” says Takeda, eyes sliding to the floor in an automatic response to Daichi’s own fearless gaze. A minute passes and Daichi leans back, a dismissal on the tip of his tongue. “I understand, but I won’t be giving up so easily. Forgive my impertinence but I’d rather die than disappoint my grandfather’s memory.” He stands, his water forgotten, and bows deeply at the waist. He barely catches Daichi’s shocked expression before his head dips too far and eye contact is lost. Daichi clears his throat, no doubt recomposing himself from the display.  

“Good then, devotion… we can work with that,” says Daichi, and Takeda hears his glass clink on his desk and realizes the bow has gone on an unorthodoxically long amount of time. He sits back down. Daichi’s gaze has softened around the corner of his eyes. “I have so much to show you,” he says and Takeda risks a smile. Daichi, with his expertise in the business world, will make an invaluable ally.  

“You’ll help me then?” asks Takeda, needing the clarification. Daichi smiles in return.  

“Of course, Young Master. We’ll start today,” says Daichi, and he stands. “Come, there’s a situation to handle on the second floor that should be a perfect learning opportunity.” Takeda happily follows him. 

The hotel clerk slips forward to whisper in Daichi’s ear and Daichi shakes his head, answering in a voice so soft Takeda assumes it’s something he wouldn’t understand and decides not to worry. Ukai and the other bodyguard hang back, walking a few steps behind them in a way Takeda is used to from his school days. Everyone in the lobby bows respectfully, seeming to understand who he is. The clerk continues on with them, apparently important to the upcoming situation. Everyone pauses outside at door at Daichi’s signal. He turns to Takeda.  

“This might get ugly. The man on the other side of this door was siphoning money from our accounts and rather than calling the police, we chose to settle the affair privately. You may not like the outcome but sometimes compromise must be achieved to keep the family safe,” says Daichi, his head tipped forward so their eyes meet comfortably with the small distance between them.  

Takeda nods. “The good of the whole vs. the good of the one, I understand,” he says, voice firm. Daichi smiles in obvious praise.  

“You sound just like him,” says Daichi. Takeda flushes and Daichi touches his shoulder in a fatherly way. His hand is large and tanned, the callouses unknown to Takeda. The clerk opens the door before them and Daichi leads the way in. Just a few feet inside the room, a man sits tossing nuts into the air and catching them in his mouth. Daichi tsks and the man flashes a grin before standing and adopting a far more professional demeanor.  

“He stopped complaining an hour ago. Took a nap right there in his chair after I…” His eyes flick over to Takeda and his words trail off. “...Suggested it,” he finishes lamely. Takeda smiles nervously and the man hurriedly bows. “If you had said the new boss was coming, I woulda prepared.” 

Daichi snorts at the very thought. “I didn’t think you’d care, Bokuto,” says Daichi, and then it's down to business. “Any trouble with him?” 

“Not since I told him you’d be on your way soon. Got all quiet, I think he’s nervous,” says Bokuto, grinning like a shark in bloody waters.  

“As he should be,” says Daichi and he gestures Takeda forward. “Come, you must meet our guest.” At those words, the clerk pulls a large sheet of plastic from under one of the beds as Bokuto and the bodyguard drag a man out from the bathroom. He is bruised and bloodied, his shirt soaked and caked in thick blotches, his right cheekbone swollen. Takeda stares, his mouth open.  

“What?” says Takeda, because it is the only thing that will come out. His throat has seized tight, useless and parched. The room is far too hot, he thinks, frozen but wishing to loosen his collar. The man groans when they kneel him on the floor and then again when they slap him back to alertness. He panics before Takeda’s eyes, then is subdued by strong hands and exhaustion. He slumps, and finally Takeda finds the rest of his voice. “What's going on here? What have you done to him?” says Takeda. His voice cracks painfully, but no one finds it funny. He can feel Daichi’s stare on his back but no one else is looking at him, their stares dull and cast above his head so they can sign out of the ensuing conversation.  

"This man stole money from your grandfather’s business, convinced the Master’s failing health would distract me long enough for him to flee the city. I am ashamed to say that my grief _did_ distract me for too long. Now, we end this man’s life and send a message to all who would dare assume Takeda’s passing has weakened us beyond repair. You will be the one to pull the trigger and thus assert yourself as the new head of the Tohoku Syndicate,” says Daichi, revealing so much but not actually making any sense. Takeda can’t move but his thoughts hurricane through his head.  

“What the fuck?” says Takeda, any eloquence lost as his eyes meet those of the broken man in front of him. “What are you talking about? No one is killing anyone,” says Takeda, and the kneeling man outright laughs, and then ends up coughing desperately into his heaving chest.  

“You’re the new boss, huh? The old man’s boy?” he says, then spits on the ground in insult. A guard threatens with a hand but the man is not cowed. “You look just like him, Young Master. He must have been so disappointed in you, so young and without a clue. You’re in an illegal casino, you know that? And you know who runs casinos? Criminals, you bastard. Your precious family is full of them. Dear old Dad died on a run-in with the police, did they never tell you? Some trust. Bet you’ll be just like your old man though, quick to assume and even quicker to run for cover. Cowards, the lot of you! I’ll piss on your family grave by the time I’m done with-” he’s silenced by a quick punch to his cheekbone. The pain makes him dry heave and end up gagging on his own spit.  

“Charming man, isn’t he?” says Daichi. “No one will blame you for wanting him to suffer.” 

“I’m not killing him!” shouts Takeda because it’s the only part he can make sense of. His voice seems to echo in the crowded room. The man on the floor begins to chuckle again and that unnerves Takeda the most. One of them yanks his head back by his hair, there is fresh blood on his lips and he groans from the movement. 

“Your grandfather ran a very strict business, Young Master. No insubordination or betrayal unanswered,” says Daichi. 

“Are you trying to convince me that my grandfather was the leader of a yakuza family? I don’t even know you!” says Takeda. “I’m calling the police!” he says, mind made up after finally catching up the conversation. When he reaches for his phone, however, he finds his pockets empty. He flounders like a fish, then spots Ukai standing, guilty, with the phone in his hands. 

“Ukai?” says Takeda, the hurt in his chest unimaginable. 

“Ukai was assigned to you by your grandfather at my suggestion. He has proven himself loyal to the family like his grandfather before him, who served with your own. I found the match suitable,” says Daichi, calm as ever as if he’s speaking about a marital match and not one of the deepest betrayals Takeda has ever suffered. Takeda wobbles on his feet, his knees proving unsteady. Ukai moves to catch him, concern plain on his face, but it is Daichi who steadies him, firm fatherly hand once again resting on his shoulder, holding him in place, weighing him down. He can’t move, can’t see straight.  

“You were never properly  groomed for this station due to your father’s untimely death. It is time to ready you in record time. We must prove your authority is not to be questioned or doubted. Your reign begins now,” says Daichi. He raises a hand to the clerk. “Oikawa, your smallest handgun. I don’t want too much mess this time,” he says, and in his hand Oikawa places the pistol he apparently keeps tucked on his ankle. Takeda stares at the gun, something coiling in his chest, tight, that won’t let him breathe. Daichi keeps talking and Takeda begs him to stop, to realize how crazy this is, all of it, how Takeda can barely hear over the thundering of his own pulse beneath his ears, how his vision has narrowed down to the gun in Daichi’s grip, small and unassuming, belying the fact any fool could point it, move a finger, and ruin so many lives including their own. It shines, glossy and polished, in the room’s light, window panes dry and clear and completely contradictory to the sky outside and the struggle raging in Takeda’s mind.  

Daichi has finally stopped talking and now looks at him expectantly. Takeda blinks owlishly, still fighting to keep his head. “I’m sorry, I-” says Takeda, but Daichi cuts him off. 

“You will do this, Young Master. It’s what your grandfather always intended for you,” says Daichi. Takeda can’t, won’t, believe such an obvious lie, a ploy for his aching heart.  

“My grandfather loved me, and he never killed anyone, least of all _like this._ You think this is what he dreamed for me? You were supposed to help me, not make me a killer!” 

Daichi’s face has been stone-cold since they entered the room but his eyes shift over Takeda’s face in a way Takeda might have considered concerned if not for the ominous weapon still in his hand. “This man is going to die either way. I am merely offering you an opportunity,” says Daichi. 

“You’re insane and I’ll make sure they send you straight to prison,” says Takeda, his frantic brain supplying a second later that perhaps this is not the smartest thing to say to a criminal with a handgun in a room filled with other criminals with more guns. He’s not thinking straight at this point; he even considers running for the door. But at his nervous and obvious glance, Ukai moves to block the exit. He could make a dive out the window but undoubtedly that would injure him greatly and end with him in their grasps _and_ in a great deal of pain.  

“Prison, huh? Alright, Young Master, if you want us behind bars so badly,” says Daichi, looking away from Takeda just long enough to place his other hand on the gun and fire twice, two shots to the man’s chest. They barely make a sound apart from the man’s curses. Bokuto steps forward to hold him in place and make sure he doesn’t get blood on the floor. There are now two small holes in the man’s torso and Takeda stares in ugly fascination as red sluggishly seeps, soaking his shirt and spreading south.  

“Congratulations, you’re now involved in the murder of one Shinobu Muraki, a known affiliate of the Tohoku crime syndicate. If you’re so keen on going to prison, turn yourself in. But know it will be difficult to prove who was standing next to you, and who pulled the trigger,” says Daichi, confidence unwavering and unwaning. Takeda watches a man die slowly on the floor, knees on stained plastic.  

“You can’t do this,” says Takeda, but he isn’t even sure anymore. Oikawa outright snorts, shooting him a look of condescending amusement, but all Daichi does is hand the recently fired handgun back to him.  

“We have been for years, flourishing under your grandfather’s guidance. We are strong, with or without your approval, and we will not stop if you refuse us. But remember your grandfather’s legacy and what is now means. You carry his name, it’s yet to be seen whether you carry his courage," says Daichi, then he claps Takeda on the shoulder. “Take him home, Ukai, put him to bed,” he says, and Takeda feels week in the knees once again. His stomach has dropped down to meet his bladder. He can barely breathe his chest is so tight. “Sleep well, Young Master, I eagerly await your answer.” Ukai takes hold of his arm and guides him out of the room.  

 

 **Suga**  

Every morning starts at 5:30. He’s up and out the door by 6:15, preferably by 6:00 (but that never happens) for his first job – terrible work and dreadfully boring, but graciously part time and decent pay. He naps in the break room of his second job then spends the rest of the day cleaning bedspreads and toilets and trying to ignore how much his feet hurt. At nine, Suga clocks out and stumbles home to bed. He gets a precious day off every Monday, when neither job needs him, then it's back at it on Tuesday. In short, he’s broke, tired, and never made it through college. His mother calls him when she remembers and he hasn’t done laundry in two weeks (his two pairs of pants are starting to stink of cleaning agents and Oikawa has been side-eying him _for days_ ). Time passes too slowly when he’s working and too fast when he’s not. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting on to change his life from this paycheck-to-paycheck, leaky faucets and moldy dry-wall existence but it’s been a long time coming and he’s getting sick of each new day before it starts.  

“Someone’s looking _dashingly_ well rested,” a voice rings, “Get a full six hours, did you? You sly dog.”  

Suga sighs and pulls the magazine from over his eyes. The light of the room blinds him, as does the sudden wake up. Oikawa pours a cup of coffee for himself and then offers Suga the rest of the pot. Suga grunts as he sits up and accepts a small cup. His alarm had gone off a few minutes ago but he’d been reluctant to move. Oikawa, however annoying at times, could always be counted on to make sure Suga gets to work on time.  

“Have you clocked in yet, Sleeping Beauty?” asks Oikawa, smiling knowingly when Suga glances up from his cup and abruptly yawns. Oikawa reaches for Suga’s card, and Suga lets him take it. He crosses the room, and the machine dings when he swipes it. “There’s no harm in taking a few paid minutes for yourself. Besides, now you’re early!” says Oikawa, and Suga snorts softly into the brim of his mug.  

“How have you not been fired?” says Suga, returning his keycard to his belt and placing his mug in the break room sink. He stretches his arms above his head and ignores Oikawa’s insinuating wink.  

“I’m charming,” says Oikawa, “and I’m too pretty to fire, they’d lose half their clientele.”  

“And half their workplace sexual harassment lawsuits.” Suga grins at the noise the man makes when his honour is wounded. He checks the employee schedule. “Is Yaku out today?” 

Oikawa recovers in no time at all, voice as smooth and disinterested as ever. “Yeah, but Daichi said not to worry about his rooms. Someone else is coming in later. No reason for you to overwork yourself,” says Oikawa, his scolding so obvious that Suga gives him a look for it. Oikawa has been not so subtly pestering him since day one, like a cat that pretends to hate you but brings you dead mice regardless.  

“Alright,” he says, because it’s easier than arguing over something so trivial. Oikawa still gives him a side-glance.  

“I know this is a longshot because you haven’t taken a night off in four years, but it's Friday so would you be interested in going out tonight? Iwaizumi and I are meeting up for drink.” Suga doesn’t even need to take a minute to consider the offer.  

“I’d love to but I work tomorrow morning.” Suga pulls on the tie he keeps in his locker. “Besides, are you sure you want me 3rd wheeling on your little date?” 

“Oh please, Iwaizumi loves your company,” says Oikawa, clapping Suga on the shoulder. “Just think about it, okay? We’d love to have you.”  

“I’ll think about it,” he promises, but they both know he won’t change his mind even if he wars with himself all day. Suga is too responsible (or as Oikawa says, “boring”) to call out of work the next morning and after so long his tolerance for alcohol will be next to nothing and suffering through a hangover isn’t his idea of fun by any means.  

Oikawa makes him promise to meet up for dinner on break before he goes, then Suga is alone and making his way up to the second floor, maintenance cart in tow. Each room is the same and takes about an hour to finish depending on the severity of the mess. One upside of the job is he’s allowed to listen to music, which passes the time quickly. He moves on autopilot for four hours, then breaks with Oikawa for dinner (“you _have_ to try this, Iwaizumi made it for me!”) then returns to his usual shift.  

He finishes his assigned rooms early and shrugs, heading for Yaku’s wing. It’s an area Suga rarely works in, only when Daichi needs him especially (“you _can_ turn him down, you know. Accepting more work from him doesn’t exactly _scream_ fuck me”) but the hallway looks the same and the rooms do too, so Suga buckles down to it. He’s not even getting paid extra for this; the only reward he’ll receive is Daichi’s smile and maybe a soft touch to his shoulder. Maybe Oikawa is right, there are better ways of getting the man’s attention and maybe even his affection, but Suga doesn’t feel comfortable blatantly sizing up his boss and lacing innuendo into his every word (as Oikawa would recommend he do). So he hopes Daichi will appreciate his extra effort, ask him to grab dinner as a thank you, and stay up all night talking with him again at a diner that has no business staying open until 2 a.m. but does because that’s just what people do for Daichi, they do him favours and laugh at his jokes. Suga’s just like the rest of them, no matter how special he feels. And yet, Oikawa has been friends with Daichi long enough to know him well and, as distracted as he’s been recently by Iwaizumi, the man has never shown anything less than total support for Suga’s silly crush. There had to be an attraction on both their parts or else Oikawa wouldn’t pester Suga so fervently. Oikawa might even pester Daichi as well. Wasn’t that a cute thought.  

Suga smiles, absentmindedly hanging the “House Keeping” sign on the door handle before letting himself in the room.  

He stares, completely still. He stares because there’s blood on the floor. Just a small spot either, but a spray covering part of the rug and spreading up the wall opposite the door. Even the glass door to the patio has some splatter dripping down in filthy streaks. Then the smell hits him and he stumbles backward, overwhelmed by the linger stench of shit and piss and so much blood. He stares, now on his knees in the hallway, at the evidence of some horrific accident. No, he thinks, knowing something is not quite right with that idea. Suga grew up in a bad place. He knows what a crime scene looks like, from walks through bad neighborhoods and police reports on TV. Suga knows and his heart thunders with the need to run. Right now. He needs to get the fuck out right now because the blood is still pooling on the floor and seeping into the white rug and there are footprints, heavy and slightly pink from the mess, tracked all around the room. Someone isn’t finished here and Suga _cannot_ be here when they return.  

Not thinking and not giving a damn about moral responsibility or justice, Suga reaches up and slams the door, ripping the housekeeping sign away and throwing it on his cart. His hands shake when he keys himself in the staff elevator. The staff room is empty when the door dings open. Stomach revolting, he throws himself in the men’s bathroom, locks the stall behind him, and throws up in the toilet. He’s sweating, he can feel it all over his body. He can’t do this, he needs to calm down before someone sees him and asks questions. He needs to call the police. Did anyone see him? Would they come for him? All the doors between him and that room are locked, employees only. But he cannot seem to force himself to his feet. The bathroom tile is cool and hard on his knees, just what he needs.  

He finally stumbles out and heads straight for the lockers. Oikawa keeps whiskey in his but he also keeps his locked like the rest of them. Suga knows the combination and yet it won’t open for him. Why won’t it open for him? Why won’t his fingers stop shaking? (Who was the person murdered in 223?) 

The lock pops off and Suga dives for the half-bottle sitting on the metal shelf right next to Oikawa’s car keys and wallet. The green alien chibi on the keychain stares at him as he kicks his head back and swallows as many times as he can before the burn is too much. It’s judging him, and he’s breathing too fast to do anything more than scowl at it. He sees himself in the mirror hanging on the locker door framed by pictures of Oikawa’s personal life. Oikawa is smiling, Suga is not. He’s sweaty and hyped up and his throat burns.  

Suga walks home, bottle in hand. His hand is spinning as he tries to unlock his own front door. It can’t be any later than 7 at night and his next door neighbor gives him a look as he passes. He throws up two more times and then passes out in his tub, which makes sense at the time. 

(But who was murdered in room 223?) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suga lies to his friends, Takeda cries in his grandfather's office, Kuroo and Bokuto bond over ramen, and Oikawa might be getting some soon ;)

**Suga**

There are many reasons Suga doesn't drink regularly. Time, for one. He never has any. Cost, because he can’t afford alcohol unless he's relying on someone else's hospitality. And ultimately pride, as Suga hates how he acts when under the influence. It also scares the shit out of him that one day he could wake up surrounded by beer bottles and realise he'd become the kind of man his father had been. (Or worse, never wake up at all.) 

He tries not to linger on such thoughts but they always sneak up into his head when he gets a little too tipsy to function or when he wakes up with a hangover. No matter how much fun the party before had been, Suga feels like shit for waking up past noon. Only this time, it’s not noon. The sun has barely started to rise. It can’t be past six. He’s late for work, he’ll have to call out with how hard his head is pounding. Why did he drink so much? Did Oikawa bring him home? 

No. (No, no no no no) He rushes towards his bathroom and heaves into the toilet but there’s nothing left in his stomach. Grotesque images (memories) flash through his mind and he presses his face to the cool, sweaty porcelain, overwhelmed.  _It’s official,_ he thinks,  _I’ve gone crazy._ His mother had always been a bit off, maybe it ran in the family. Paranoia, hallucinations, these were not things normal people struggles with. Had it been real, then? The very thought turns his stomach. It would make him a witness to a crime. It would also mean a lot of bad press at the casino, maybe even lead to loss of business and a shutdown. Fuck, is that even important right now? (Yes) Someone is dead, fucking murdered, and the only thing he can think about is his job. He has to… he needs to do something.

He goes back. He takes a train and then a bus and walks the last mile (this is where he should run to make up for lost time but he’s too sick, he might throw up again). He needs to go back to that room (Room 223) and prove to himself that it was real before he does anything else. If he goes to Daichi and it turns out to be nothing, he might ruin everything. His job, their maybe relationship. They might send him to a nut house. He needs proof first. If and when he finds it, he’ll come clean. Of course, the most he can do is claim he suspects something and saw a lot of blood. That should be enough for a warrant, right? (If not, Suga has no idea what else he can do to help them.) He’s never heard of Daichi having trouble with the police force, and the casino pays enough taxes and attracts enough rich tourists to be regarded with respect in the community. So Suga can’t think of a reason they won’t be on his side and eager to help.  

It’s early, too early to be busy in the lobby. A few employees, mostly the lingering night crew, mill around. A couple passes him wearing ridiculous running gear and a phone rings behind the desk. The morning receptionist, a woman named Asahi who Suga rarely gets to work with due to their respective schedules, smiles at him and finishes the call. “Suga! You’re early,” she says, then pauses, her hand scratching at the patch of stubble she clearly missed while shaving that morning. “Really early. Did you pick up someone’s shift?”  

Suga stops in front of the desk, smiling convincingly. “Oh, I just  _love_ working this early. But no, I forgot my phone in the break room.”  

“Ah, well, if you don’t find it, let Daichi know,” she says, and the phone rings again. She waves him goodbye playfully as she answers, bracelets jingling with the movement. He likes her and on any other day he would ask how she’s been, but for now, he returns the wave before slipping across the room to the staff doors. He shortcuts through the kitchen, earning a good morning from Iwaizumi (who obviously hasn’t been bothered yet by Oikawa considering how stress-free he looks) before getting shooed out of the way so they can load breakfast trays and get started on room service.  

It’s a little disconcerting how full the break room feels. Suga hasn’t worked a morning in over a month and he’d forgotten how little he knows the morning crew and their habits. A toilet flushes in the back and laughter roars from a group in the corner closest to the door. A woman slips by him in a crisp waitress uniform, beaming a great smile despite the early hour. A tall, angry man argues with a redhead as the two shove at each other and fight their way through the doorway.  

To kill time and blend into the background, Suga checks the roster. He  _had_ worked the night before and Yaku  _had_ been out sick. Who had come in to cover him? Had they… seen the same thing he had? If he could just drop a few hints, he might be able to find another witness and also put away his doubts. Unfortunately, it will also mean someone had died in that room (room 223). Is he selfless enough to not want that? Even if it means sacrificing his own mental health (it would mean he hallucinated the entire thing, it would mean his mother had given him more than her silver hair and moles, it would mean explaining to his boss he had no legitimate reason for missing work, it would mean going to a doctor for prescriptions just to keep functioning on a day to day basis). Suga hesitates, his eyes still on the schedule. Can he do this? There’s so much risk hovering over his head, a Damocles sword swinging by a thread. So many doubts strike him now. What if it was real? Would they believe his word; would they investigate on that alone? Should he take pictures just in case? He left his phone at home, dead on his bathroom sink. Could he jot down the details and hand those in instead? (Or would that be equally useless?) What if it had been nothing and it was all his imagination at work.

Suga closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, listening to the last of the other workers leave for their various shifts and stations. The sounds last for a few more minutes, then the room is quiet. Just as the hallway beyond the door empties, a locker creaks. Suga jolts to attention only to find Oikawa leaning against the wall of lockers. He’s frowning. Suga stares (what the fuck is he doing here?) and then sags against the wall. “Oikawa, it’s just you,” says Suga. Oikawa’s raises his eyebrows. His expression is not exactly welcoming.

“You were expecting someone else?”

“No, no, I’m relieved,” says Suga, and Oikawa nods, crossing his arms. He looks around the room and Suga fidgets even without this attention. “Uh, I’m just going to… I need to go…”

He makes it to the door before Oikawa says, “Do you know what happened to the whisky in my locker? It’s been stolen.”

Suga’s throat seizes. He completely forgot about that little detail underneath everything else. He swallows but Oikawa continues before he can respond. “I don’t like being lied to, Suga.”

It only takes a minute for Suga to react. “I was going to tell you,” he says. Oikawa looks less murderous but still upset.

“Why did you take it? You could have just asked… You also could have at least told me the truth when I invited you out last night.”

“It wasn’t planned,” says Suga, and the distress on his face (it’s panic, but Oikawa doesn’t need to know that) softens Oikawa’s next words.

“What happened?” asks Oikawa, and for a moment Suga debates on telling him the truth. (What would happen? Would Oikawa help him? Would Oikawa _believe_ him? Would he want to tell Daichi immediately or would he search the room for evidence as Suga planned? What if Suga told him and it turned out to be nothing?)/ But Suga doesn’t, probably because he’s scared out of his mind by the what-ifs and is currently running on adrenaline alone. So, of course, he says the first thing that comes to mind for an excuse. “My dad called me last night,” he says, and Oikawa drops his defensive posture.

“Oh, Suga,” says Oikawa, sounding like a sympathetic mother. He rushes forward to embrace Suga. “Are you okay?”

“No,” says Suga, no longer lying. “It happened so fast and I just needed to take my mind off it all and I knew you had some in your locker, you always do, so I took it. I drank too fast,” he inhales sharply, “got smashed and fell asleep in my tub.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Oikawa holds him close and Suga feels like shit for lying and taking advantage of Oikawa’s kindness but he accepts the intimacy, relishes in the calming heat and scent of a freshly showered Oikawa. “Next time just call me, I’ll drop everything,” says Oikawa, and Suga knows he means it. Despite first impressions of Oikawa being a bit childish, Suga’s learnt how deeply the man cares about his friends and how difficult it is to lose his trust once you have it. He wants to tell Oikawa the truth (but he can’t, he really can’t).

“I didn’t want to ruin your night,” says Suga. Oikawa quickly shushes him.

“Nonsense, this –you—are far more important than a few drinks at a bar.” Oikawa squeezes him tighter before holding him at arm’s length. “But why are you here so early? You look like shit, sweetie.”

Suga would normally roll his eyes and reply with a snarky “well, _honey_ , not all of us can get nine hours of sleep every night and follow an intensive skin cleansing routine.” But Suga doesn’t feel too normal, downright rung-out really. All the adrenaline that has kept him going till now has faded, leaving him drained and painfully hungover. He sags against the wall behind and closes his eyes to the image of Oikawa’s concerned frown. “I,” he says, trying to invent a plausible reason. For all Oikawa knows, Suga had been working just fine and normal as can be before his dad called, a conversation –of unspecified length—which had fucked him up so much he quickly broke into Oikawa’s locker (instead of calling the man himself and, let’s face it, the detail of Suga not asking for help is what _sells_ this entire façade) and made off with the booze Oikawa stashes there for emergencies (Suga knows, after several attempts, not to bring up Oikawa’s apparent drinking problem) _and_ somehow made it home and passed out in his bathtub (and thankfully didn’t drown in his own vomit). He has no idea how to twist the truth to avoid scrutiny.

“I forgot my phone…” he regrets it as soon as he says. He hates lying to Oikawa or any of his friends. But it's plausible and he can expand on it to keep himself out of trouble for a bit longer. “Somewhere,” he tacks on. “I was… too upset to notice when it fell out of my pocket. And too drunk last night to find it anyways.”

Oikawa appears to buy it. He even coos sympathetically before leading Suga towards the elevator, patting his shoulder. “You were working in the west hall, 3rd floor, right? Don’t worry, I’ll help you look through your rooms. Two heads are better than one, right?”

“Oh no, you really don’t have to,” says Suga.

“Nonsense, I’m only here early to talk to Daichi. He can wait,” says Oikawa, and in any other circumstance, Suga would appreciate his loyalty. Instead, he suffers through several hours of a futile treasure hunt in silence. At the end, Oikawa notices how sad he looks and lets him go home to recover before his evening shift. He seems none-the-wiser about the truth, based on his verbal dedication to solving the mystery of Suga’s phone (which is actually dead and sitting on his bathroom sink). He bids Suga goodbye and “see you later, cutie!”

Suga falls asleep on his couch when he gets home, still uncertain of his memories from the night before.

(Who was murdered in room 223?)

(…Was anyone murdered in room 223?)  

 

**Takeda**

Takeda hides in his room for two days. He leaves only to venture to his grandfather’s study a few times a day. He must do so quietly, stepping over the tray of food left in front of his door by Hayate, who not doubt frets over his lack of appetite.

His supper last night smelt delicious but he left it relatively untouched. In every spare moment, his mind recalls the image of Muraki falling, two oozing wounds in his quivering abdomen. He’d recall the way blood spread over the plastic beneath the man’s knees and the casual way he heard Oikawa joke about the small splatters on the way and suddenly the lamb Hayate prepared was covered in it, a deep rouge seeping out from the cuts Takeda’s knife made. Takeda threw up in the toilet, losing what little lunch he ate and then left the tray in front of the door, the rest of the meal completely discarded.

 Such a waste and an insult to Hayate’s hard work but the old butler forgave him and brought him breakfast a few hours ago. Takeda laid in bed, trying his best to ignore his knocks and the following disheartened sigh. Rice, rolled egg, nato, and green salad was left for him, the effort in the meal and its presentation obvious. Takeda managed to stomach a bit of it all, Hayate’s worry giving him the strength to continue. He left the tray in the hallway as he had the day before and retreated into the room.

But now it’s time to escape to the study once again, his only distraction from… everything that happened the day before. The room still holds the same childish comfort from before and yet he cannot look upon his grandfather’s personal items without Daichi’s words coming back to mind and leaving him feeling cheated.

As he sits at the old desk he ponders those very words. Surely there is no truth behind them, their only use to confuse and ultimately convince him, to play off his love for his family and lead him astray. Daichi is manipulating him, there is no doubt about it. His words were cruel and armed to the teeth, their power made possible due to Daichi’s familiarity with Takeda’s grandfather. How long has Daichi been planning this betrayal? And what is the end game? Does he simply want the family to fully embrace a criminal way of operating because it’s easier? Is it about money? Perhaps there are more opportunities for businesses of their prestige offered by existing organised crime. Yakuza are very real and notorious in Japan, and Takeda has no desire to get caught up in the mess. However, this could present a perfect opportunity to get rid of Daichi, who would most likely pit himself against Takeda in the future. If Takeda could get the police involved he might be able to save the company and its investors. How deep does the corruption go, though? There were at least three men with Daichi, not counting Ukai.

Takeda’s chest squeezes painfully and suddenly he can think of nothing else. On Daichi’s word, Ukai lied to him from the beginning. Why? And to what end? Takeda likes to think it was not just to be exceptionally cruel to a young man who just lost his father. All those quiet, gentle moments shared while Takeda learned to cope, learned to mourn gracefully, when his music sat untouched for months at a time and his grades suffered and the only thing holding him together was the too-short visits to this very estate, to his sweet yet stoic grandfather who always knew when to push him and when to leave him be. Ukai had always been there, silent eyes always watching out for him, always ready to take a drive to nowhere just so Takeda could stare at something other than his wallpaper. That man can’t be the same man who betrayed his trust so thoroughly two days before. Ukai never lied to him before, to his best knowledge, unless ordered to do so by Takeda’s grandfather to protect him. It brings up the question of motive, and the idea focuses Takeda enough he can wipe his eyes and pick up a pen.

_Reasons why Ukai_ he writes on a pad of paper. He doesn’t get any further before he has to pause, stiffening his resolve. The only reason he can continue is the way his grandfather’s study makes him feel safe. He inhales…

_Reasons why Ukai betrayed me_ the note reads and Takeda refuses to linger on the last two words.

 

  * _Grandfather told him to_
  * _It was for my own good_
  * _Money_



 

He can’t tell which viable reason is more upsetting, and all of them raise more questions. Takeda continues to write. Why would his grandfather tell Ukai to do such a thing? Was his grandfather threatened or pressured by someone, and who has such power, such malice against an old man? Takeda doubts Daichi does or ever did have enough backbone and resources to threaten his grandfather, no matter how weak of body he had been in his final years. Who then? Someone in the government, the police? Corruption does exist, despite how much Takeda wants to believe in the morality of officials and police officers.

The second option makes Takeda’s heart ache even more than the first somehow. The thought of Ukai painstakingly trying to keep Takeda out of the mess his family’s business had become, elaborate lies made possible by Takeda’s long absences from his grandfather’s estate and unwavering trust in the man who had been his driver for half his life. Takeda doesn’t want to think of Ukai suffering in such a way, alone and even fearful for his own life at times.

Worse yet was the idea of Ukai willingly involved in such deplorable activities and knowing, despite his own proximity to the corruption, he had to keep Takeda’s safe. He has failed, either way, to keep Takeda away from the mess Daichi has made, and that’s _if_ Daichi is the ring leader and not just some well-mannered lieutenant of a higher up, his expensive suits bought by blood money and heavy trigger fingers.

Lastly is the idea Ukai had been paid off, his silence bought his loyalties fickle. Does this rise from greed or necessity? Ukai had stated, gently but candidly, one night as he drove the long way home, one hand on the wheel and the other splayed wide against the wind just outside the window of the car, that he has no close family. Besides his parents, of course. No significant other, either. Perhaps one of his parents had fallen ill or he had personal debts Takeda did not know about. Maybe it was Ukai himself who had fallen ill or fallen into bed with bad habits unsustainable by a mere driver’s salary, no matter how reputable the employer. Takeda wants to say he has no sympathy for anyone who has struggled with an addiction but his friendship with Ukai is too strong, no matter how hurt he feels, for him not to worry about the man.

Instead, he bites his nail and strides around the room, the list of reasons crinkling in his right hand. Forehead throbbing with concentration, Takeda starts to sweat. “The easiest way to know for sure is to ask,” he says to himself. But that’s too risky. If he asks Ukai and the answer isn’t what he expects… what if it’s not even on his list? He’s not sure someone isn’t out to get him, given the circumstances. His hands shake as he raises them to his temples.

“This is ridiculous, listen to yourself.” He rubs the ache in his head and sits back down. The clock on the wall reads four p.m. He’ll have to move back to his room eventually or else Hayate will knock on the study room door and Takeda will have to face him.

Takeda pauses.

“Hayate,” he says. An old framed photograph on his grandfather’s desk captures a young Hayate and Takeda senior, one standing dutifully at the other’s shoulder. The photograph looks relatively informal, with Takeda’s grandfather caught off guard and looking at someone out of view, slightly turnt from the camera. In contrast, Hayate is standing in perfect posture in his traditional uniform, with a polite smile on his face. Takeda laughs at the natural feel of it.

There is a reason his grandfather kept this photo out of all the others that could easily take space on his desk. If there’s anyone he can trust to know what’s really going on, it’s Hayate. Being so close to the master of the house for an entire lifetime assured Hayate had been around through it all, right by his grandfather’s side.

Mind made up, Takeda nods to himself, eager for answers. He will speak with Hayate when the old butler comes up with dinner.

Hayate knocks gently at seven on the dot. For a moment, Takeda is tempted to send him away again, to put off the conversation for another day. What if Hayate tells him something he doesn’t want to hear? Thinking so only tempts him further, his cowardice nearly overpowering his desire for the truth.

“Come in,” he says. Propriety dictates their roles. Hayate opens the door, bows upon entry. Takeda nods his head in response. Hayate pours his tea in silence while Takeda avoids his eyes in favour of staring at his list.

“I have something I want to ask you,” says Takeda. Hayate is always thorough cutting up his serving of duck. The old butler doesn’t pause.

“Yes, sir?”

“Was my grandfather a criminal?” He figures it will only pain him further to delay or leave his question up for interpretation. He needs a clear answer and trusts Hayate, an old friend, to give him one.

The old man does not disappoint.  

“Yes,” says Hayate, placing the tray on the desk in front of him. 

Takeda stares.

He knows Hayate would never lie to him about such a thing, and he also knows that his grandfather was a good man, a loving man. A man who helped raise him when his mother died and his father tried his hardest but ultimately wasn’t enough. In all of Takeda’s memories of his father, Hayate is there, just a few feet away and ready at the waiting.  

When Takeda stares too long at his pant leg, the least threatening part of the room he can think of staring at, Hayate clears his throat. “Your grandfather was very dear to me, Ittetsu. I spent many years by his side and would trade them for nothing in the world…He was a man not without his flaws, however.” It pains Hayate to speak ill of the old master, Takeda can see it in his stiff shoulders and downturned gaze. Takeda himself can barely handle the words.  

“I don’t understand,” he says. “How is this possible?” It hangs in the air for a few minutes, Hayate standing solemnly and Takeda fidgeting with his trousers. “So that’s it then? He hurt people and made a living off cheating them out of their money? He- he abused his power and tortured lower class citizens with threats and manipulation and-” 

“The syndicate has been in your family for generations, Master, it’s legacy is not so easily denied.” 

“Peer pressure does not excuse murdering people and trafficking drugs!” His grandfather’s old chair is now uncomfortable, stained stiff with dried blood after countless years of his grandfather calling for systematic killings and hitmen and whatever else being a yakuza entailed. His stomach roils against the thought, his face surely tinting green.  

“He was like you when he was young. Eager to change things and full of energy. He made this family better, he changed the business, young Master. He led us into a better relationship with the community and with other families. He helped people-” 

“He killed them!”  

“And yet he was loved.” Leaning back, Takeda forces himself to breathe again. His face is hot from yelling and his heart pounds. Hayate isn’t denying anything he’s said and Takeda isn’t sure what he’s saying is better.  

He settles for wiping away the tears that have gathered around his eyes and laying his head down on the desk, careful not to disturb the steaming tray. His cheeks squish against the dark wood and he wishes his grandfather were here to run a hand through his hair.  

“I don’t understand,” he says, his temples throbbing.  

“Would you like my advice, sir?” 

Takeda sniffles, “Yes.”  

“Don’t let this revelation ruin the relationship you had with the Master. Let it strengthen it.”  

“I’m not going to become a yakuza,” says Takeda.  

“Oh hardly, you don’t look the part at all.” Takeda frowns and glares up at the butler, to which Hayate smiles and says, “but he would be proud of you for trying. He’d tell you how strong you are, how much courage it takes to enter this world without any prior knowledge. He often told me he thought it was a mistake not to include you in the family business but knew it was best for you. He wanted you to go out and live for yourself before returning to the family, as I’m sure he told you.” 

Takeda nods, eyes on the wood grain. “He was so happy when I was accepted at my university.” 

“An opportunity he never had.” 

“But my dad went before me,” says Takeda.  

“He went because the Master made him go, not because he wanted to. You, on the other hand…” 

“Always loved school.” 

“Precisely, Young Master. Your grandfather wanted you to experience that part of your life without worries or inhibitions.”  

Takeda’s tears fall freely and less woefully now. His grandfather used to be so happy when he phoned home about his classes and his assignments, even if they were challenging him. The first year had been the worst, as the loneliness of being away from his family hit him at the same time his new step-mother started to push more and more for his grandfather to retire.  

Hayate moves closer and puts a light hand on his shoulder, the closest they have gotten to a full hug in a long time. Hayate hugged him with his mother died and his father many years later. Now Takeda had no one left to lose to prompt such intimate contact. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Young Master, I truly am.” 

“Would he have ever told me? Was he going to lie to me all my life and give me this- this fucking letter years later?”  

“He never meant to hurt you with it, Master. He  _wanted_ to talk about this before he died but you had not finished school.” 

“I hate this.” He wipes the tears from his eyes and grimaces as his running nose. Hayate produces a handkerchief from somewhere on his person, neatly folded and still crisp with starch and soon ruined with Takeda’s tears. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, Young Master, it is a lot to take in.” His hands in his lap, Takeda stares at the cooling teacup on the desk. Hayate pauses. “Are you hungry, Young Master?”  

Despite the revolting of his stomach and the ever-present knots of anxiety curling around his oesophagus, Takeda finds that yes, he is. “Famished,” he says, and Hayate smiles pleasantly.  

 

**Kuroo**

“Why the fuck do we always get the cold missions? says Bokuto. Kuroo lights a cigarette and puffs smoke into the air. Bokuto tries to rub the warmth back into his fingers, grimacing, but ends up sticking his hands back into his pockets.  

“Wear gloves next time, dumbass,” says Kuroo, his own hands pleasantly covered by leather.  

“Not all of us have lovers to buy us nice things.” Bokuto is whining now. Kuroo can’t help but grin.  

“Someone sounds lonely.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Are you jealous? Do you want to fuck my boyfriend?”  

Bokuto stares at him for a second too long.  Kuroo blushes. This is not something they’ve discussed before. Kuroo might have crossed a line. He drops it quickly and they go back to silence as they wait. They’re currently standing underneath an eve behind a restaurant, the stink of the alley overwhelming the city air. Kuroo doesn’t particularly like city streets like but Daichi has him spending most of his time there. Bokuto likes the hustle and bustle of downtown but skirts away from the outer streets if no one is there to keep him in line. Kuroo supposes that’s his job. Kind of like leading a big dog on a leash: in control, but barely so. Bokuto is a loose cannon. Or he was until Kuroo started distracting him.  

Kuroo frowns at the thought, his ears heating up.  

“Ohohoho, you thinking about him now, are you? Am I gonna get to see your O face?” says Bokuto, leaning in a bit too close for comfort.  

“Fuck off,” say Kuroo, shoving him away. The other man dances a few steps before coming right back. It’s endearing in a weird way. Kuroo wants to hate it. Bokuto knocks their shoulders together and it takes a second for Kuroo to understand why. “Oi, oi, don’t use me to block the wind!” 

“It’s too cold!”  

“You should be the one standing in front of me, I’ll lose my cigarette!” 

“Those’re bad for you anyway,” says Bokuto. Still, he moves to do as Kuroo requests. His broad shoulders block more wind than Kuroo imagined they would. His mouth goes a little dry when Bokuto tucks his head down and leans in closer to protect his soft belly from the cold.  

“Better?” says Bokuto, no doubt to tease him. Kuroo says nothing. They need to remain professional here, at least to a point. The bar is set low but Daichi would still like them to get work done when he asks.  

“Do you think he’s coming?” Bokuto asks after a few minutes of waiting.  

Kuroo flicks his wrist to look at his watch. “He’s only a few minutes late; we’ll give him a chance.”  

“This is the guy Daichi knows from his time in the army, right?”  

“Yeah, the Sergeant. Apparently, when they left Daichi came to the family and this guy went to the police.” 

“That’s crazy how different they ended up,” says Bokuto.  

“Different circumstances, I suppose,” says Kuroo, inhaling a lungful of smoke.  

“Gimme a drag,” says Bokuto. Kuroo is reluctant.  

“You sick? I don’t want that shit in my mouth too.” 

“I’m not sick! Just fucking bored.” 

Kuroo rolls his eyes. “Watch your fingers,” he says because the cigarette is small now.  

“Aw, you worried about me?” says Bokuto, his eyes wide and fake-innocent. Kuroo stomps on his toes and grins when he yelps. 

“Why the fuck did you do that?”

“You’re too close.”

“You said you _wanted_ me this close,” says Bokuto.

“I did fucking not.”

“You sure?” Bokuto grins and leans in a little closer, his teeth white and utterly shark-like. Kuroo glances down at his lips. Tries to ignore how nice they look. Then Bokuto places the cigarette in between his lips and inhales, his mouth circling around the filter obscenely. Kuroo does not look away. His right eyebrow climbs his forehead. The moment is ruined when Bokuto grins and blows smoke in his face. Kuroo shoves him away.

“Why’s he so fucking late?” asks Bokuto, his hands high in the air as he balances while walking on the curb in a straight line. He passes the time in the weirdest ways. Kuroo doesn’t have the heart to do more than roll his eyes and let him. His cigarette lays on the ground, snubbed out a few minutes ago.

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Think he’ll show?”

“Man, just shut the fuck up and wait,” says Kuroo.

They wait. An hour passes. Bokuto complains about his empty stomach.

“Can we leave yet?”

“No.”

“Can we grab food after this then? You owe me.”

Kuroo scoffs. “The fuck I do!”

“I paid for your ramen last time!”

“Fuck, you’re right,” says Kuroo. Bokuto laughs.

“We can grab noodles from the place downtown,” says Bokuto. It’s his favourite place to eat. They’ve gone there before.

“Ah but they’re stingy on the seasoning,” says Kuroo, frowning at the thought. “I like my ramen spicy.”

“You got to choose last time and I want to sit down when we eat.”

“Wining and dining me already, huh?”

Bokuto laughs. “My feet hurt! I’ve been working really hard, you know.”

“I know,” says Kuroo. He nods towards their car. “Let’s go. We’ll tell Daichi he didn’t show.”

“Think Daichi will be pissed?”

“Nah, they’re old friends. Besides, he might have a good excuse.”

“True,” says Bokuto, climbing into the passenger seat. They end up at the noodle shop Bokuto loves, sharing a booth in the back corner away from the windows. Bokuto faces the room in order to people watch, leaving Kuroo with his back to the door and very little to look at. They order the ramen because it’s cheap and no matter what Kuroo says it’s still good. The owner smiles at them. Kuroo watches her for a second too long.

“See something you like?” asks Bokuto, also looking in her direction. She’s tall and broad; he nods approvingly. “Asahi-san! I’d like you to meet someone!” The woman turns and Kuroo knows why she looks familiar.

“Asahi-san,” says Bokuto, as the woman bows pleasantly, “works at the hotel during the mornings when this place is closed. She’s the best receptionist they have.” He’s smiling broadly and the woman is giggling pleasantly at his enthusiasm.

“Stop it, Bokuto-san! You’d upset Oikawa if he were here.”

“But he’s not,” sings Bokuto, and Asahi giggles again. “This is Kuroo, you’ve met him I believe.”

“Yes,” says Kuroo, glaring at Bokuto for putting him in this situation. “We’ve met, I’m sorry for not recognising you.”

“Not at all. I can imagine you’re never very awake in the mornings,” she smiles and she’s beautiful. She touches Bokuto’s bicep as they talk. Kuroo just listens to them catch up a bit, slurping noodles quietly from his bowl. After a good chat, Asahi excuses herself with a bow and a shy smile. Bokuto is also smiling. Kuroo doesn’t know what to think of the look they give each other.

The air is even colder and the wind even stronger when they walk back to their car. “Worth it,” says Bokuto, patting his stomach. Kuroo hums in agreement. His belly is also pleasantly warm and full.

“You’re buying next time,” says Kuroo.

“Is this going to be a thing from now on? Us treating each other to dinner on late nights,” says Bokuto. He rubs the warmth back into his fingers as the engine purrs to life.

“I don’t see why not. Do you mind it?”

“Nah,” says Bokuto.

“How’d you find out Asahi-san owns that shop anyway?”

Bokuto grins a little sheepishly. “I, uh, went on a date or two with her… She lives above the shop.”

“You…” Kuroo trails off, eyes on the road. He can feel Bokuto staring at the side of his face. He isn’t sure how to continue. “You have no objections to that? Even though…”

“Even though Asahi-san had a sex change?”

Kuroo’s throat is uncomfortably dry. He braces for the worst on personal experience alone. “Yeah,” he manages to say after a moment.

“I don’t see why that would stop me,” says Bokuto, a small shrug belying the monumental truth he just revealed. “Asahi-san’s a woman just like any other.”

“That is… very accepting of you,” says Kuroo, his mind spinning.

Bokuto shrugs again. He fiddles with his jacket sleeve. “Times are changing, you know? I don’t see any reason why someone wouldn’t deserve to be the happiest they can when there are options available to them… is that going to be a problem?”

Kuroo smiles softly. He glances over. Bokuto looks as nervous as he feels. The man’s flushed red from his confession. “Not at all,” says Kuroo. How he wants to touch him, to reassure Bokuto that this is a safe space to admit such things. The hotel comes into view and Daichi is waiting.

“Thanks for the noodles,” says Bokuto, climbing out of the car. The atmosphere from before has dissipated. Kuroo is thankful.

“Like I said, you’re buying next time.”

 

**Oikawa**

There’s a folder on Oikawa’s desk and it’s been there for weeks now. Daichi told him to memorise anything that might be useful to his mission and then burn it. The front reads: Iwaizumi Hajime. At night, he lays it on his lap and reads for hours, his lamp buzzing softly next to his chair. In the morning, his eyes burn and his back aches but it’s nothing a few painkillers can’t handle.

This is his job. He cannot complain; he chose it for himself, he wasn’t forced. Daichi asked him and he owes Daichi quite a lot, so he said yes. They met in the early hours of the morning to plan, laying out a basic plan of action. Daichi liked planning and Oikawa could never sleep at night anyways. He keeps a spare change of clothes in the break room for the nights where they lose track of time and don’t go home at all.

Today, Oikawa stares down at the folder on his desk. He’s read through it four times, front to back, and he’s confident in saying there are no surprises waiting for him. There’s a metal basin on his balcony just for this kind of information. It burns pleasantly, quickly, after he crinkles it all up and lights it. He watches it burn for a few minutes before lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves.

[6:32 AM: Today is the day.] He types, and waits for Daichi’s confirmation.

**[6:36 AM: Good luck. Keep me updated.]** Daichi replies. Oikawa knows how much is riding on this operation, and how much Daichi trusts him to let him try. He doesn’t know which weight is heavier.

He debates on which shirt to wear underneath his suit jacket while he eats his breakfast. The light grey one contrasts nicely with his tie but the blue one shows off his eyes better. [6:45 AM: Make sure you eat a good breakfast] he sends to Daichi, knowing the man will skip by with a cup of coffee and a granola bar if no one holds him to a higher standard. Oikawa’s own [later] is steaming and delicious. He makes it for himself each morning without fail, sometimes adding a bit more spice than necessary. There is no one holding him to such a routine but himself. He should keep his diet on track if he wants to stay healthy, as healthy as he can. He learned very young, fresh out of college and ripe with problems festering in his mind, that the key to a good life is good food.

**[6:51 AM: I’m frying an egg.]**

Oikawa snorts. [6:52 AM: You home?] he asks.

**[6:56 AM: Yeah. You?]**

[6:59 AM: Of course! What kind of housewife would I be if I wasn’t home for my curfew each night? ;)]

**[7:02 AM: You’d make a terrible housewife.]** says Daichi, and Oikawa laughs, rinsing his dishes before replying.

[7:05 AM: That’s a lie and you know it. I have all the right skills.]

**[7:10 AM: If you say so.]**

[7:12 AM: Agree with me, Sawamura, you know you want to. ;)] He settles on the blue shirt and a pair of silver cufflinks. He runs his fingers through his hair, the pomade sweeping it gently away from his forehead and styling it just the way he likes. Daichi says he should get it cut – he knows Iwaizumi prefers it this way from the man’s attention alone, so it stays.

[7:20 AM: I’ll have to skip the meeting with Michimiya] he writes, already knowing what Daichi’s reply will be before he hits send.

**[7:24 AM: A convenient coincidence, I’m sure]** answers Daichi. Oikawa snorts at his predictability. He’s made it no secret he finds it awkward to meet Daichi’s – by all intents and purposes—wife. He has too much history with the dear woman to control his emotions around her. He still wonders how Daichi keeps so calm.

He doesn’t respond. Then, thinking better of it, tacks on a message. [Wish her well for me.] Daichi and Michimiya hadn’t lived together for over ten years, rarely spoke about anything other than business, and trusted each other with separate regions of the Takeda family’s Miyaji syndicate, but not with their son’s education. All those years ago, Oikawa had been present for their romantic fallout, had listened to Daichi’s lawyers argue with hers. In the end, Daichi had settled for staying in the marriage for both their sakes – splitting accounts and finances. Oikawa had been his witness as he signed away his rights as a father with a heavy sigh.

Michimiya is not a bad person, not even a bad wife or mother. She is efficient at her job and easy to talk to, she knows how to haggle and how to gamble. Despite all of this, Daichi didn’t love her. When they had first met, Oikawa often wondered why. Over time, he learnt it had been a whirlwind affair at the beginning with hardly any depths to it, a young love tempered out with time and reason.

None of this, of course, is his business anymore. He lost the privilege of knowing the deepest workings of Daichi’s love life when he himself left. Daichi rarely kept anything from him, as close as they still were as friends and coworkers – it was still not his place to ask. Daichi is polite enough, never forcing Michimiya and Oikawa into the same room unless work demanded it of them all. When this happened, they all attempted to act like mature adults and not three unfortunate souls who were once caught in a love affair.

Daichi doesn’t answer for several minutes, long enough for Oikawa to tie his shoes and loop his tie in the mirror. When he climbs into his car, there is a message waiting for him. **[7:38 AM: Of course.]**

Then: **[Find me when you’re done in the kitchens.]** And that’s the end of it.

Oikawa finds Iwaizumi in the kitchen, white coat stretched tight over his shoulders. He's speaking with his dedicated sous chef and Oikawa is struck, just a little bit, with how capable the man is when placed in his element. Despite the fact that element is surrounded by bustling kitchen staff and the smell of sizzling oil, Oikawa is not deterred or even disappointed. There are far worse professions to fall into bed with, and it helps Iwaizumi is also a man in his prime. Oikawa will gladly whore himself out to broad, musky, and virile over old, weak, and perfectly groomed. It had been one of his strongest points of persuasion when Daichi teetered indecisively between assigning Oikawa or someone else.

"It will hardly be a chore," Oikawa had said, sniffing pretentiously at his glass of scotch while skimming for the first time the folder which was now so familiar to him. Of course, such a confession was not unexpected and Daichi had not forgotten his trepidation beneath his amusement. He had teased Oikawa heavily, making jokes about the thickness of their cook's thighs, the thickness around his middle, his arms.

"Jokes on you," Oikawa said, when his patience had run out. "I'm the one who gets to run my hands all over his incredible chest and arms, to leave hickeys on his thighs and sit on his lap, while you sit in your office, alone as usual, brooding about finances." Daichi had stared at him, drink forgotten in his hand.

Then, Daichi had said "get over here" in a deep, no-nonsense voice and Oikawa had happily kneeled between his legs. It had been a fantasy for both of them. The next day Daichi officially gave him the assignment.

Oikawa is pulled from his musing by the sous chef gesturing in his direction, a smirk on her face, and Iwaizumi turning to follow her gaze. Oikawa waves, and begins to weave through the busy kitchen. Iwaizumi is scowling when they meet halfway.

"I told you to stay out of my kitchen and away from my staff," says Iwaizumi, crossing his arms and forming a formidable barrier with his shoulders alone. Oikawa beams down at him before throwing a wave to one of his waitresses. He knows her from his morning shifts.

"It was one time, Iwaizumi," says Oikawa, not surprised the man has held onto the incident for the past few weeks.

"You're a distraction and an accident waiting to happen the second you walk through the door. Out." He shoulders Oikawa towards the staff door, herding him into the lobby. Oikawa has other plans.

"Are you admitting you can't help but focus on me?" he asks, coy, walking backwards.

"No, you're an annoyance," says Iwaizumi. He does not protest or try to pull away when Oikawa tugs him away from the kitchen by his sleeve. "You're incorrigible," he says, letting Oikawa back him into a dark corner. There's hardly any traffic here, especially so early in the morning before the maids are on their rounds. It's a perfect place and Oikawa is proud of himself for picking it out beforehand.

"Hush, you love it," says Oikawa – the words are softened by the nervousness he feigns. He forces a flush up his neck and fiddles with the double buttons on the front of Iwaizumi's chef coat. Iwaizumi, not quite as dense as some assume, watches him carefully. Oikawa can feel his gaze.

"Are you alright?" asks Iwaizumi, making no move to push Oikawa's hands away.

Oikawa takes a deep breath, calming his very real nerves. "I have a question to ask you," he says.

"Alright..."

"I... shit, this is harder than I thought- um," he clears his throat and lets go of Iwaizumi's uniform. Iwaizumi is staring at him. "Would you like to go out to dinner sometime?"

"Uh..."

"As in, a date. I'm asking you on a date," says Oikawa, his stomach turning and his palms authentically clammy. It's ridiculous and Oikawa could kick himself for getting bent out of shape over a fake attempt at romance.

"Aren't you and Daichi...?"

Oikawa cannot help the step he takes back. He shouldn't, he should stay in Iwaizumi's space, infatuate the man with his scent in any way he can. "What?"

Iwaizumi looks uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot like he wants to run. Oikawa feels the same way. He begins to fear the first day is already a bust. "Sorry, it's just," Iwaizumi starts, then huffs. "He's all you talk about, you know? And people talk... didn't you used to date? I thought- shit, I don't know, I thought you were stuck up on him or something." Iwaizumi runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up further.

"Daichi is one of my closest friends," says Oikawa, and though it feels counterproductive, he adds, "and we tried dating once. The rumours are true." He sighs deeply. "That explains why you've ignored all the possible signals I could send you."

Iwaizumi smiles. "I don't take kindly to playing second fiddle," he says.

Oikawa steps back into his personal space and Iwaizumi lets him in without a fuss. Oikawa holds onto his uniform buttons again and Iwaizumi lets him do that too. "You're the first fiddle, you're the... only fiddle." He hopes he's not dragging the metaphor too far. He glances away from Iwaizumi's gaze.

"Okay." Oikawa's head snaps back up. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"Maybe this Thursday? Since you take Friday's off..." At Iwaizumi's knowing look, Oikawa laughs. "What? I'm hopeful!"

"How about I cook dinner for us? This Thursday, at seven."

"I can bring wine," says Oikawa, eager to contribute.

"Make it red," says Iwaizumi, and Oikawa knows he already has a palate in mind for their evening. It's quite touching.

"Sounds perfect." He reaches up and fixes the front of Iwaizumi's hair, a habit he's gotten into over the past few months. Iwaizumi doesn't seem to mind. Feeling brave, and faking bashful, he places a quick kiss on Iwaizumi's cheek. "Meet up for lunch?"

Iwaizumi nods, red high on his ears. "Just stay out of my kitchen."

Oikawa laughs but does not argue, letting him get back to work. He had his own shift to clock in for anyways and his first step is complete. Time to text Daichi.

\--

The next few days pass in a flash and Thursday arrives before Oikawa is truly ready. He greets Daichi in the morning before going to see Iwaizumi in the kitchens. This time, he waits in the doorway for Iwaizumi to come to him. It wouldn’t do to annoy the man too much now. To his credit, Iwaizumi manages to tamper down an outright smile until the door closes behind them. They tug each other down the hallway to their designated dark corner where Oikawa feels brave enough to reach for his hand. It’s slightly sticky where he hadn’t time to scrub away whatever he was making. Oikawa doesn’t mind.

“Is this a regular thing then?” says Iwaizumi, wiggling their fingers a bit for clarity.

“It can be.” Oikawa grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he does. Iwaizumi huffs. Oikawa dares think it sounds fond. “We haven’t talked about PDA.”

“We also haven’t gone out on a date yet, either,” says Iwaizumi.

“We’ve gone out for drinks together plenty of times,” says Oikawa, eager to counter his point and start up decent banter. Iwaizumi is at his best when mildly exasperated.

“As friends,” says Iwaizumi.

“All relationships start off as friendships. Then you share a drunk kiss and pretend it never happened for a few while mutually pining,” says Oikawa.

“Speaking from experience?”

“No, it’s just common knowledge.” Oikawa shrugs.

“It sounds dreadful. Why not just confess?” Iwaizumi looks completely serious.

“Oi, confessing takes a lot of courage. And some people aren’t in a situation where they can.”

“Why not?”

“Well, what if you work together? Or… or they’re in a relationship already?”

“That didn’t stop you,” says Iwaizumi. Oikawa freezes. He is used to rumours about him and Daichi, used to joking with the man himself at the idea of Oikawa attempting to further his career through sex. But the existence of Daichi’s wife is not common knowledge and Oikawa thought the slander of “mistress” was behind him. Hearing such an accusation, no matter the aim, brings him back to the guilt and the shame and the sharp slap of Michimiya’s small hand on his cheek. It is not a time of his life he is proud of.

“Oikawa?” says Iwaizumi, no doubt unnerved by Oikawa’s sudden stoicism. “Don’t tell me you just realised we work in the same building?” It’s meant as a joke to ease the tension. Oikawa can still hear the uncertain Iwaizumi’s voice, however.

It only takes him a second to think of a suitable response. “You’re… you’re not married, right?”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant,” says Iwaizumi, practically leaping at the chance to clear the air. He appears nervous, his hands clammy. Oikawa finds it almost reassuring.

“The work think then?” Oikawa bites his lip.

“Yeah,” says Iwaizumi. Oikawa can’t believe he overreacted to something so tame.

“Well… you made a compelling case,” says Oikawa.

Iwaizumi grins. “So, we’re still on for tonight?”

“Your place at seven.” Oikawa leans in and kisses his cheek. “I’ve already picked out the wine, I can’t back out now.”

“Ah, yes, the wine,” says Iwaizumi, twiddling their fingers.

“The only reason,” Oikawa insists.

“It would be a shame to waste it.”

“Exactly.”

“Never mind my cooking.”

“Not at all.”

“Or my company.”

“It hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

The Sous chef calls for Iwaizumi from down the hallway, cutting short their teasing. They have been together longer than necessary, especially at work. Iwaizumi curses softly and Oikawa squeezes their hands before they part ways. He watches Iwaizumi walk away shamelessly, nerves lighting up in his belly.

Daichi lets him leave work early to prepare for the date. He showers for an extra-long time and spends even longer making sure he smells good all over. He’s had an outfit in mind for weeks but waits to put it on. It would be best to eat a light snack before heading over so he doesn’t eat a piggish amount and make a fool out of himself. Iwaizumi’s cooking will be too good to resist on an empty stomach. Tonight has to be perfect, and bloating from overeating is not part of the plan. Nor are stains on his shirt.

He ends up eating celery in his boxers, shifting from foot to foot in his kitchen as he runs over his mental list of conversational topics. Iwaizumi isn’t’ completely shy and they’ve gotten to know each other quite a bit in the last few months. Oikawa isn’t worried about awkward silences but he likes to be prepared for anything. On his list are topics brushed upon over drinks but didn’t delve into – like family and childhood memories—despite no good reason not to. He knows most of the relevant information from Daichi’s file – hometown, educational background, family history, relationship and sexual history, military record—yet Oikawa can’t help feeling curious. No doubt Iwaizumi’s stories will be far more refreshing than any file. Oikawa also wonders if he’d catch the man in any lies or omitting of details, even if Iwaizumi doesn’t strike him as the deceptive type.

It’s six by the time he flosses his teeth. It takes about 20 minutes to get to Iwaizumi’s apartment – which he’s been too many times to make sure the man got home safely—so he has to leave sooner than he anticipated. He ends up rushing on his outfit, optional waistcoat forgotten in his closet. His hair is far more tousled than he would like –teetering on the edge of tasteful and messy, in fact—but he has no time to fix it in the mirror. He almost misses his train.

It’s started to rain by the time he knocks on Iwaizumi’s door. It’s not quite enough to ruin his hair – it certainly doesn’t _help_. His efforts to tame it during the commute fell flat – unlike his bangs, which sweep wildly back from his forehead. There are spots on water on his jacket –it’s only a light drizzle, really. It’s not enough to dampen his mood or his nerves.

Iwaizumi answers the door after less than a minute. “Oikawa, you’re right on time with the wine.” He leans in and kisses Oikawa’s cheek, taking the bottle and Oikawa’s jacket just inside the entryway.

“If I had known you needed it for cooking, I would have brought it to work today instead,” says Oikawa.

“It’s not trouble, as long as you don’t mind waiting to eat…”

“Of course not. Is there anything I can help with?”

“Not at the moment, no. This is my treat, remember? Please, make yourself at home.” Iwaizumi heads for the kitchen, leaving Oikawa to his own devices in the living room. There’s a modest sized TV and couch in the centre, with a cluttered bookshelf against the back wall and small succulents in various nooks and crannies.

Instead of teasing the man on his décor, Oikawa smiles. “You’d think a man who spends all day in a kitchen would be sick of it by the time he gets home.” He browses the books Iwaizumi has collected. Many of them are practical, how-to’s and historical account, and others are non-fiction, success stories and memoirs and even a cultural critique or two. Oikawa thinks it suits him.

“You’d hope that a man loves his job enough to bring it home with him,” says Iwaizumi. “And I do.” He steps into the room, wiping his hands on a towel.

“That could get messy,” says Oikawa. “What about butchers?”

It surprises a laugh out of Iwaizumi, who shakes his head and promptly takes Oikawa’s hand. “Charming, aren’t you? Help me set the food out.”

“I try,” says Oikawa, then spends the next five minutes attempted to taste everything while avoiding Iwaizumi’s strict hands.

“If I catch your fingers in the beef one more time, I’ll chop them up and add them in,” says Iwaizumi, rapping Oikawa’s greedy knuckles with a spoon.

Oikawa whines in protest and sucks the sauce off his fingers under Iwaizumi’s glare. “I need my fingers,” he says. 

Iwaizumi kisses the aching red mark, making Oikawa smile, then turns him towards the table. “Sit down,” he says.

“Are you going to use the spoon again if I don’t?” Oikawa smirks – Iwaizumi doesn’t seem impressed.

“Go.” Oikawa goes, taking the seat opposite from the kitchen area so he can watch the man finish up.

“It smells delicious,” says Oikawa, eyeing his plate as Iwaizumi serves him the first course.

“Thank you,” says Iwaizumi, sincere. He sits still while Oikawa tastes it the first time, eyes locked on his expression.

“It’s amazing,” says Oikawa, not knowing how else to describe it. Iwaizumi exhales and relaxes in his seat, a small smile on his face as he begins to eat. It strikes Oikawa that Iwaizumi, the head chef of one of Miyagi's top businesses, is nervous about impressing him. He stares, a smile overtaking his face as he watched Iwaizumi mix a few things together on his plate.

The man glances up. “What is it? Is something wrong with the food?”

Oikawa looks down, resuming his meal. He’s grinning like a fool, nowhere near as calm, cool, and collected as he planned on being for tonight. “No, it’s perfect, thank you,” he says. Iwaizumi watches him –he can feel it—for a few seconds before they’re both eating again.

Much of the meal passes in relative silence. Oikawa has spent enough time with Iwaizumi to know this is normal and most of the conversation will come after, when the table is cleared and the dishes are soaking in the sink. He doesn’t worry it’s a sign of boredom or awkwardness. It doesn’t stop him from voicing his genuine reactions to the amazing tastes before him. After the third time, Iwaizumi gives up on thanking him and instead chuckles and teases him for his questions. It’s a laidback meal and exactly what Oikawa wanted it to be.

They both clear the table when finished. When Oikawa rolls up his sleeves and moves towards the sink, Iwaizumi tries to say, “you don’t have to do that,” but Oikawa doesn’t back down.

“I’m not going to leave you with a mess to clean up after I’m gone.” He tosses Iwaizumi a dish towel. “You can dry them.” They settle in front of the sink, shoulder to shoulder. Being half of width-split house, the kitchen is not incredibly wide and a bit too small for two people at once. Iwaizumi bumps into him too many times to count and in turn, Oikawa hip-checks him a few times. Water spills on the tiled floor and Oikawa laughs his apologies. He worries his hands prune by the time they finish but even joking around, Iwaizumi is more than proficient in the kitchen.

“Would you like tea or wine?” asks Iwaizumi.

Oikawa wipes his hands off on the towel hanging over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, grinning at the reprimand he receives. “Tea, please.” It would be best to keep his wits about him for the rest of the night and he has a weakness for wine.

Iwaizumi nods and gestures him back to the living room. Oikawa takes a seat on the couch and his eyes wander. A book catches his eye and he glances back to the kitchen before starting towards the bookshelf. It sits in front of the rest, without a proper place or perhaps set down hastily after use. Oikawa recommended it the week before, on Saturday at a bar. It had been a half-drunken rant about the existence of extraterrestrials and the proof of their influence on human culture. At the end, Iwaizumi had been less than convinced and Oikawa had been upset –he’s an emotional drunk, to be fair—so they had reached a compromise: Oikawa could calm down if Iwaizumi read this book and took it seriously. Oikawa has a copy of his own –albeit smaller and sparser—bookshelf. He’s shocked by such a dedicated follow-through. After sneaking a peak back to the kitchen where he sees Iwaizumi’s shadow by the door, Oikawa opens it and skims. It’s obvious the book has been opened before; there’s even a dog-ear 14 pages in. There’s not much in terms of annotation, however, so Oikawa doesn’t know if Iwaizumi intends to finish it. Still… to go out and buy a book just because he told Oikawa he would? They had even been drunk at the time, so Oikawa could have easily forgotten all about it after sobering up.

“Simple green tea.” Iwaizumi places the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch and sits.

“Oh, thank you.” Oikawa places the book back on the shelf and takes a seat beside him. They sip quietly, comfortable in each other’s space.

“You found the book, did you? I suppose it stands out with such a bright colour,” says Iwaizumi, and he’s right. The rest of his collection is subdued greens, greys, and browns –like an old man’s library—where Oikawa’s recommendation is pale orange and features a picture of Mars’ surface on the front.

“Oh yes,” Oikawa laughs, looking back to it. Iwaizumi’s thigh is hot, inches away from his own. He debates resting his hand there.

“I’ve been meaning to pick it back up again, mind you. I’m not nearly as far in as I’d like to be,” says Iwaizumi.

“Do you like it then?” Oikawa knows he’s grinning – he cannot help it.

Iwaizumi grunts. “It’s well written.”

“Pretty different from your usual interests though…”

“Yeah,” says Iwaizumi.

“I’ll make a believer out of you yet,” says Oikawa, and Iwaizumi snorts into his teacup.

They talk about many things, returning to old topics and starting new ones. Somewhere along the way, Oikawa angled his body towards the other man, one leg tucked up on the couch between them and one elbow resting on the backrest. Iwaizumi leans towards him –or maybe it’s the couch sagging under their weight—and Oikawa plays with his right hand as they talk. Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to mind, occasionally attempting to catch his fingers with a chuckle.

The finish their tea around nine and it’s been a while since they’ve said anything. Iwaizumi has slowly sunk the cushions, Oikawa tucked under one arm. On heavy hand rubs lethargic patterns on Oikawa’s back and in return he rubs circles on Iwaizumi’s stomach. Occasionally his fingers catch on the buttons running down the middle of Iwaizumi’s shirt – he hasn’t the energy to keep it from happening. He fears they will fall asleep here and wake up sore – he has not felt this relaxed in weeks…

Iwaizumi snores quietly and the sound vibrating through his chest to Oikawa’s ear is enough to jostle him to alertness. He sits up and rubs his face, watching Iwaizumi blink away.

“Sorry to wake you,” says Oikawa.

“What time is it?”

“A little after nine, old man.” Oikawa ducks to let Iwaizumi have his arm back.

“I didn’t hear you complaining earlier,” says Iwaizumi.

“No, you didn’t.” Oikawa presses a kiss to his cheek. “You make a very comfortable pillow.”

“Thank you?”

Oikawa hums playfully. “Never change.”

“Do you work tomorrow?” Iwaizumi stands, still drowsy, and carries the tea tray back to the kitchen.

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Oikawa.

“You should head out soon then,” says Iwaizumi. He stands in the doorway.

“It sounds like you’re kicking me out.” Oikawa pads close enough to poke his stomach.

“You know I’m not,” says Iwaizumi. It’s such an honest answer, Oikawa pauses before moving to put on his shoes.

“I’d like to do this again. I had fun.” He ties his scarf around his neck and then Iwaizumi wraps his arms around Oikawa’s hips.

“I enjoyed your company more than I thought I would.”

“We hang out after work all the time!” Oikawa cries, offended.

“Dating is completely different,” argues Iwaizumi.

“But not mutually exclusive,” scoffs Oikawa.

“I concede to your point. Does this mean we’re still drinking on Saturday?”

“Yes, but you can’t have as much as you did last time. You nearly passed out on the train!”

Iwaizumi sighs and Oikawa plays with the collar of the man’s shirt. They’re so close, he can smell the tea on Iwaizumi’s breath and where he spilt it on his shirt when Oikawa made him laugh.

“I’d like to kiss you,” says Iwaizumi, and Oikawa bounces on his toes.

“Yes, please! God, I’ve been waiting all n-” Iwaizumi’s lips are soft and his stubble scratches. Oikawa cups the back of his neck and holds him close long enough to sweep his tongue out once before they pull back.

“Same time next week?” asks Iwaizumi, and Oikawa has to laugh.

“Sounds perfect,” he says.

Iwaizumi opens the door for him. “Goodnight Oikawa,” he says.

“Goodnight Iwa-chan.” He smiles and turns as the door locks behind him.

It’s no longer raining outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warn(ed) you not to expect quick updates. In other news, can anyone figure out the stylistic differences between their sections yet? I chose specific things I wanted to try and threw them all over the place (some are more obvious than others).

**Author's Note:**

> Please join me [in hell](http://www.she-who-fell-from-grace.tumblr.com/) and look through [this story's tag](http://she-who-fell-from-grace.tumblr.com/tagged/rough%20time%20\(tm\)/) but only if you'd like to. No pressure here.


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